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ILWSTRfflONS 

fyffOQiMwm- 

NEWARK 

THE METROPOLITAN PRESS 
1910 




Copyright, 1910, by 

THE METROPOLITAN PRESS 

Registered at Stationers’ nail, London 
(All Rights Reserved) 

Printed in the United States of America 



Press of William G. Hewitt 
61-67 Navy Street 
Brooklyn, New York 


©CU273737 


IN MEMORY OF MY DEAR FATHER 

3[ol)n lotoe ^roUte 




CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Rosk-Coloeed World 1 

Marie; or, The Girl in the Gingham Gown 21 

Andy's Vision 28 

The Hermit op Saguenay 40 

The Princess and the Cup-Bearer 63 

Naomi’s Wedding Bells 61 

The Enchanter 73 

The Thistle: A Parable 85 

The Knight and the Dream 88 

The Renunciation op Fra Simonetta 93 

Mirabelle 115 

The Knell op Nat Pagan 123 

Dr. Scholar Crutch, op Allsparnia 137 

The Bend op the Hill 157 

Prue’s Gardener 169 

Faith 217 


f ^ ' w 


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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


PACING 

PAGE 


“If This is to Live in the Woman’s World, May It 
Continue Forever ! ” Fron tispiece 

“Not to This Man Give I MY Hand’’ 

“You Will Pin It on! ” He Begged, Looking Down into 
Her Childlike Blue Eyes 


69' ' 
148^ 


Prudence Peeped through the Branches at Donald.. 20« 


\ 



THE ROSE-COLORED WORLD 


Don Waring stretched his long limbs, yawned gener- 
ously and opened his eyes, opened his eyes indeed, and 
stared amazedly at the sky through the trees. Stared, 
stared as he had never done before in his life, for Don’s 
eyes were usually only half open. He stared without 
blinking till his eyes felt sore ; stared with an astonish- 
ment which rarely disturbs such easy-going, indolent 
mortals as Mr. Don Waring. Something surely most 
unusual had happened. 

And well he might stare ! For above him, among the 
leaves and branches, glared the rosiest sky he had ever 
seen. Eose! rose like the crushed leaves of the reddest 
roses. Eose to the north, rose to the east, rose to the 
south, rose to the west — a flaming, radiant, brilliant rose 
spread everywhere to the horizon. Intoxicating rose ! 

Not alone at the sky did Don stare, but at the trees, 
the grass, the meadows beyond the woods. The trees 
shimmered all colors of the rose as the sunlight fell upon 
them, flashing in the breeze like rubies from the palest 
to the darkest pinks. The tall grasses bent in a wave of 
pink like a coral sea. The roseate meadows beyond died 
away in the violet mist of the hills. Alone the flowers 
1 


2 


THE ROSE-COLORED WORLD 


had kept their natural hues — ^the snowy white margue- 
rite, the wise golden buttercup, the passionate poppy, the 
gentle violet, the lily with its grave, pure heart of white, 
every flower maiden so natural and as beautiful beneath 
the roseate sky as it had been when its leaves opened 
wide under heaven’s blue. The woodland, the fields, the 
hedges, all nature was shaded in a thousand hues of rose. 
And this was varied by an occasional white willow, per- 
fect white, weeping into a rivulet which bubbled along 
its lazy way. 

Don Waring rubbed his eyes vigorously. Then he 
pinched himself soundly. Well, he was certainly alive 
and awake ! 

‘^By Jove!” he muttered solemnly, ^flf this is the end 
of the world, I’m for the goats ! My sins are many, and 
here’s one C. 0. D.” And Don glanced at his watch. 
^Tour o’clock and I promised Therese I would meet her 
at Oakwood Corner on High Street at half-past 
two ! J ove ! What a time I’ve been asleep. This must 
be eternity. Rose, rose, rose everywhere! Very odd.” 
And he rubbed his eyes again and repinched himself. 
Then he got slowly to his feet and shook himself like a 
big St. Bernard. 

^^Don’t understand this new aspect of things,” he mur- 
mured, again looking around at the pink trees and grass. 
‘^Something is wrong with my point of view, I suppose. 
I see this world pink; perchance somebody else sees it 
green. How I wonder which of us sees it right. It is 
enough for me to have Therese flare up and scold without 


THE ROSE-COLORED WORLD S 

this flaming world. I suppose there has been a volcanic 
eruption while I slept. The sky still reflects it.” 

And he walked off through the roseate woodland, step- 
ping across the rivulet whose waters rippled in ribbons of 
pink, and so on to the High Street and Therese. 

As he walked on he observed that the houses had all 
changed since noonday, when he fell asleep. More fan- 
tastic houses he had never seen. Quaint indeed, pretty, 
odd ! Everything that was dainty, and — well, essentially 
feminine — in design and decoration greeted his eyes 
along the streets. But with all their daintiness the win- 
dows were bare of curtains, of an3dhing suggestive of a 
woman’s touch. The gardens were orderly and joyously 
luxuriant with flowers. The verandas were spacious and 
clean, but lacking in the feminine coziness of cushion^ 
rocker and hammock. Something of homeness was lack- 
ing about every mansion and cottage. Don stared much, 
but as staring did not alter facts he simply sighed and 
walked on, thinking fondly of Therese. 

His thoughts were not allowed to run on peacefully. 
To his utter amazement as he entered the High Street a 
bevy of pretty girls was standing around the door of the 
Horseshoe Inn. Not only standing, but smoking — smok- 
ing cigarettes, cigars, and, oh ! cruel fact, pipes ! They 
laughed aloud as they joked with one another. So un- 
seemly ! 

Don had ever been a devotee to the eternal feminine. 
But for the first time in his life his nerve all but forsook 
him. Every one of those pretty girls turned and stared 
nonchalantly at him, as if he were something very 


4 


THE ROSE-COLORED WORLD 


superior, or was it inferior? He was afraid to decide. 
He felt conscious of his tie being awry. Then he won- 
dered if his boots had their usual shine, and he glanced 
stealthily down to see. He blessed his last tailor lest his 
coat sagged ungracefully. Indeed, he felt thoroughly 
and uncomfortably conscious that something was amiss 
with himself or his clothes. And his sensations were not 
pleasant with a couple of dozen eyes scrutinizing him 
boldly as he approached. 

Not only that, but the unwontedness of girls standing 
around the inn door was disturbing, not to say annoying. 
As for their smoking — well, he was no moralist, so it 
mattered little. At least as Therese was not among the 
girls, he did not care. If Therese had been there 

smok But there, Twas sacreligious to even permit 

the thought. 

Therese was the belle of the town. She was a brown- 
eyed girl, with cheeks like twin cherries, a mass of chest- 
nut curls which defied all conventional combing and a 
spirit like an angel — alas! and not unlike a devil at 
times thought Don. But Therese smoking — never ! 
Therese was a womanly woman and had her own ideals — 
fine ones, even if they were provincial. Perchance all the 
finer for being born and developed in the purer air of the 
town, so near the field flowers, the still softness of the 
woodlands, the peaceful, eternal hills. 

Therese would never smoke, no matter what other girls 
did. 

Don raised his hat nervously as he passed the inn. 
The bevy nodded carelessly, some of its members not even 


THE ROSE-COLORED WORLD 


5 

removing their pipes. After he had passed, dead silence 
fell on the girls, and that added to Don’s discomfiture. 
What had happened to this strange world, or rather what 
had happened to Don? Usually he stopped and joked 
with his girl friends, but something extraordinary had 
befallen his nerves; he was tongue tied. As Don was 
naturally a sociable, talkative man, this was most ex- 
traordinary. 

Don observed a number of strange things as he wan- 
dered on. Every cart, wagon and other vehicle which 
clattered past on the cobblestone road was driven by a 
woman. In every shop only girls served. And, horror 
of horrors, even the barber shop was run by a woman. 
Indeed, the affairs of the world seemed to be in the 
hands of the women, and to Don they appeared to be 
upside down. However, Therese was all right. What- 
ever the world might do, Therese would always be the 
same sweet, lovable girl, unspoiled by any volcanic meta- 
morphosis in social customs, or in nature, or the sky. 
Dear Therese ! 

Don strode along the High Street, dreaming and con- 
fident. At Oakwood Corner was a grove of trees, sur- 
rounded by a high fence. The townspeople were pleased 
to call it a park. There at Oakwood Corner Don stopped 
— stopped with a violent palpitation of astonishment. 
Boldly sitting on the fence with her arms crossed, non- 
chalantly smoking a huge cigar was Therese ! 

Don decided to retire unobtrusively. He shrank from 
embarrassing her. But on further consideration he 
changed his mind. He would find out the meaning of 


6 


THE ROSE-COLORED WORLD 


all these queer phenomena. Therese would know of 
course. Apparently she felt no shame at being seen in 
public smoking. Very improper ! 

Therese had not observed him. Her attitude was one 
of careless ease and she was half whistling a popular air 
from a recent comic opera between luxurious puffs of 
smoke. Certainly she appeared to be enjoying her folly, 
for she threw back her head and blew spirals of smoke 
into the air and then laughed as the wind carried them 
away. 

As Don approached her he again felt that odd embar- 
rassment, that cruel consciousness of his tie, his boots, 
his coat. Where had his nerve fled ? 

^'Good afternoon, Therese,’^ he ventured nervously. 

Therese swung around on the fence easily and faced 
him, calmly removing her cigar. ‘‘Hello, Don she ex- 
claimed cheerfully. 

“How d’ye do,” he returned, flushing slightly and in- 
wardly annoyed. 

“I suppose I shall have to throw this away,” she ob- 
served coolly even reluctantly, laying her huge cigar on 
a post. 

Don laughed somewhat hysterically. “Suppose ! Well, 
I should think so !” said he. 

“Why ?” asked Therese, daintily wiping some ashes off 
her muslin sleeve with a tiny handkerchief and not pay- 
ing much attention seriously to his remark. 

“Oh, of course it’s all right. In fact it’s no matter. 
Certainly.” Don’s meaning was somewhat involved. He 


THE ROSE-COLORED WORLD 7 

felt he was on the edge of deep water and scrambled out. 
"Sorry I am late/^ he added hurriedly. 

"That’s nothing,” remarked the little woman care- 
lessly. "Just your usual. Putting on a new tie, I pre- 
sume. It looks very nice.” 

"I fell asleep under the trees — he began apologeti- 
cally. 

"Never mind, dear,” came her quick and rather sur- 
prising rejoinder. "We women always have to wait for 
you men. You are a vain lot, forever prinking.” 

"Well, that’s better than smoking,” rejoined Don with 
spirit. 

Therese opened her eyes in amazement. "Smoking! 
Why, what’s wrong with that ?” 

"Wrong ! Why, everything is wrong with it.” Don’s 
courage forsook him with Therese’s big brown eyes so 
sternly fixed upon him, and he stopped abruptly. 

"You never objected before,” she said slowly. "And 
that is a poor explanation. How is a woman to spend 
her time when she has nothing to do if she does not 
smoke ?” 

Don was shocked. Was Therese mad? 

"You never smoked before,” he said quietly. 

"Never smoked before ! Why, I have been smoking 
straight along ever since you knew me. You’re dream- 
ing !” And she laughed. "Wake up, Don. Come out 
from under the trees.” 

"Therese, that’s not true, or if you have smoked you 
never let me know.” 


8 


THE ROSE-COLORED WORLD 


The girl climbed down off the fence in a very boyish 
fashion and faced him boldly. 

^^Don Waring, you accuse me of telling a falsehood. 
If you don’t choose to remember or believe, our friend- 
ship had better end.” 

Don’s heart began to beat uncomfortably. simply 
tell the truth as I know it,” said he. ‘^You never smoked 
before to my knowledge.” 

^Then your memory is still asleep under the trees,” 
remarked Therese. 

‘T guess it is,” smiled Don equivocally. 

'^Anyway, why shouldn’t I smoke?” demanded The- 
rese. '^Every woman smokes. Women have been smok- 
ing ever since this age began. Why shouldn’t they ?” 

Don wondered what age as he answered firmly, 'Tt 
is a man’s privilege and pleasure.” 

man’s!” cried Therese, astonished. ‘‘Why, there 
isn’t a man in town who smokes, or if he does, he smokes 
in secret, where women cannot pry. No gentleman ever 
smokes.” 

Don burst out laughing and then stopped in the midst 
thereof as he remembered the Horseshoe Inn and the 
bevy of girls. What did all these things mean ? 

“I expect we had better change the subject,” broke in 
Therese. “Tea may be a pleasanter topic than smoking. 
It is late now. Come along to the Brass Tea Kettle and 
have afternoon tea.” 

And herewith Don received another shock. Therese 
had never suggested afternoon tea before or any other 
paid-for pleasure for that matter. It struck Don as 


THE ROSE-COLORED WORLD 


9 


rather original, bold in fact. Not that he objected, but 
it was not what a man looked for in the woman he 
adored. However, as Therese wished it so it must be. 
And they started down the High Street, Therese in the 
gayest of spirits and Don — involved. 

Don’s distress did not decrease with this change of 
events. For every girl who met them smiled knowingly 
at the little woman by his side and nodded in like fash- 
ion. This was growing unbearable. 

^^How rude those girls are!” he exclaimed senten- 
tiously. 

"Not at all,” replied Therese. "I feel flattered.” 

"Flattered at what?” inquired her companion. 

"Walking with so handsome a man. You look your 
best to-day, Don.” 

The man gave up being surprised at Therese. She had 
never made a remark like that before. However, possibly 
the rose-pink sky had something to do with it. Certainly 
the sky had not changed since he had wakened under the 
roseate trees. As for Therese, Don’s thoughts became 
wrapped in gloom and mystery. 

As they entered the Brass Tea Kettle Don observed 
that there were present a greater number of men than 
girls, the reverse of the usual. In every corner of the 
room men sipped tea at the little round tables, men ex- 
quisitely groomed, with the flashiest of ties and the 
daintiest of boutonnieres, men strangely effeminate. And 
the few girls who were present ogled the men in a very 
forward fashion, while the latter seemed to be rather shy 
and inclined to the nervous snigger. Therese met with 


10 


THE ROSE-COLORED WORLD 


pleasant nods on every side. As for Don, the female 
world expressed open admiration. And Don, with the 
courage of a Daniel among lions, nerved himself to the 
occasion. 

Therese ordered the tea; Therese jollied the men 
waiting, for men served in the Brass Tea Kettle for the 
first time; Therese tipped the waiter; Therese paid the 
bill. And Don 

Don secretly, solemnly pinched himself under the 
table to see if he were alive. 

Don was overwhelmed. 

^Therese, this is too much of a good thing,” he pro- 
tested, holding out his hand for the bill. 

^This is my affair,” came the quick rejoinder. 

‘^Nonsense !” snapped Don with annoyance. 

Therese laughed softly. ^^So long as the world, good 
taste and chivalry rule, women must play their part in 
womanly fashion* We serve you men. Whoever heard 
of a gentleman paying for a woman ! Fancy, Don, what 
my friends would think of me if you bought seats for 
me at the theater and paid for the supper afterward !” 

^'Well, that is the way it ought to be !” exclaimed her 
companion indignantly. 

^^Rubbish ! We women do the work, we are paid for 
it. Wliy shouldn’t we treat you men to what pleasures 
we can afford ? Our life is so free and you are so ham- 
pered with social duties, calling, etc. It is the least we 
can do to brighten your lives,” and Therese picked up 
her dainty cane as they left the tea room. 

'^What next!” cried Don, half angry, half amused. 


THE ROSE-COLORED WORLD 


11 


'^Woman’s rights ! woman’s suffrage ! woman’s ” 

And then he exploded with laughter. 

‘Wou are utterly incomprehensible to-day,” and The- 
rese snapped the head off a dandelion with her cane. 
‘^Why do you laugh? No manly man would hesitate to 
let a woman pay his way in the world. ’Tis a woman’s 
right. ’Tis only chivalrous to take a woman’s money 
and spend it as he pleases. I don’t understand you.” 

"Small wonder !” laughed Don. "I am just thinking 
of how funny it would be if women clothed and fed their 
husbands and children. Fancy the woman buying every- 
thing, while her husband spent his money as he liked! 
Imagine her paying doctors’ bills, gas bills, and water 
rates, and generally being the drudge and banker of the 
family !” 

"Well, you laugh at what actually exists. Every 
woman in this town, with few exceptions, is doing that. 
Why shouldn’t she ? ’Tis the way of the world.” 

"Then the world has changed for the worse,” returned 
Don firmly. 

"Simply your point of view, Don. It may have been 
otherwise at one time. But who knows which is the 
right way ?” 

"Don’t, please!” pleaded Don. "I can’t stand any 
more woman’s rights.” 

Therese just gave him a mystifying smile. 

They walked on in silence for some time. It was a 
sweet, sunny day, just a day for a long automobile ride. 
The wind rustled the tree-tops and skipped over the 
lawns, then ran away and hid among the flowers. Out 


12 


THE ROSE-COLORED WORLD 


it came again and puffed into the faces of the wayfarers, 
tempting them to laughter and to talk. With the ex- 
hilaration of the day Don was on the verge of suggesting 
a drive when suddenly a remarkable airship of very hand- 
some appearance swung around the corner of the street 
and it settled down beside them. 

^^Here’s our car cried Therese gaily. 

^‘^Ours I” gasped Don, gazing at the fine, comfortable 
airship in astonishment, with its gay brass fittings and 
luxurious cushions. 

“Yes, I ordered it. Jump in, dear, and let us away 
to the pink fields and wild flowers. I am longing for a 
whirl through the country air.” 

Don stepped in without more ado. He had never 
been in an airship before. In fact he had never seen 
one except in pictures. So far only experts and in- 
ventors sailed in them. Don felt very nervous on The- 
rese’s account, but the latter jumped in as if she had 
never traveled in anything else, and an airship was as 
easy to run as a baby carriage. And, to Don’s horror, 
she dismissed the aviator — a woman ! 

“My treat !” begged Don feebly. 

“Nonsense !” smiled Therese as she waved her hand 
to the aviator and started the ship sailing upward over 
the roofs of the houses and out into the roseate country. 

“You are only a man,” she said presently. 

“Well and why not ?” asked Don, holding his breath as 
they flew over a lake. 

“Oh, Fm satisfied,” remarked Therese, just steering 
past the boughs of a huge oak tree. 


THE ROSE-COLORED WORLD 


IS 


‘Thank you/^ said Don mildly. 

“Aren’t these airships a great improvement on the old 
auto cars? Every one is trying to sell the old things 
now and purchase an airship/’ remarked Therese. 
“Some awful accidents happen.” 

“Oh, it’s wonderful, great!’ exclaimed Don enthusi- 
astically. And then as they suddenly whirled across an 
inlet of the sea, where the surf was pounding among the 
rocks in a wild, hungry roar, and he beheld another air- 
ship rapidly sailing from an opposite direction, he 
added with an inward quake, “Yes, I should imagine 
some accidents might happen.” 

“I am glad you like it,” rejoined Therese, calmly wav- 
ing her handkerchief as they shot close past the other 
airship. “There go the Spencer-Leightons. Haven’t 
they got a swell airship? It goes sixty miles an hour, 
sometimes eighty.” 

“Gee!” exclaimed Don, aghast. He knew better now 
than to remark at any strange thing or happening and 
hid his secret shudders as the airship darted over tree- 
tops and windmills. 

“Regulation speed is forty miles an hour, hut people 
haven’t changed since the old days of the auto car, and 
lots of them rush through the air at a terrific speed. It 
is not fair to the grocer ships and the butcher ships, and 
thus the accidents. It keeps the airship policemen busy. 
You see, there is so much commerce and traffic in the air 
now. They are starting an airship express company, as 
the trains do not go fast enough. You know the airship 
street car system in London is paying enormous divi- 


14 


THE ROSE-COLORED WORLD 


dends, and in New York people won’t travel in anything 
else.” And Therese increased their speed till the air 
whistled and sang around them. 

^‘We shall have a cozy time together, dear,” said she 
after a while. 

Don smothered an exclamation at this audacity and 
simply said, "Oh, of course !” 

Away into the country flew the airship. And what a 
wonderful world of pinks and reds it was! Woodlands, 
meadows, streams, lakes, all blending in rare and beauti- 
ful shades of sunset hues. 

"Wonderful!” exclaimed Don as he gazed over the 
roseate landscape. 

"One would think you had never seen the country 
before,” said Therese as they darted across an island 
dotted lakelet and struck over the tops of a dense wood. 

"Neither I have in these shades,” he answered care- 
fully. 

"What shades?” demanded Therese. 

"Pinks, and reds, and crimsons.” 

Therese laughed. "It has always been pink, and red, 
and crimson.” 

"Love and a woman make it so,” murmured Don, 
after which, to his surprise, Therese pressed his hand, 
which Don reciprocated with fervor. And the woods 
grew redder than ever. 

The fields were massed with daisies and buttercups, 
a sea of coral set with topaz and pearl. Streams of water 
twinkled in the sunshine, bubbling over pebbles in a 
thousand shades of ruby. Branches of trees met in a 


THE ROSE-COLORED WORLD 


15 


maze of rosy leafage, glancing in light or shade as the 
sun fell upon them. Crimson hedges railed the fields 
into a velvet checker board. Hills rolled away to the 
horizon in a roseate glow, dying in an opalescent wave 
of light, gold and garnet. Groves of trees, robed as if in 
autumnal dress, wreathed their varied shades like jew- 
eled coronals or splashed the hillside like heart’s blood. 
Here and there a wayside pond or creek reflected the 
glory of coral, ruby and garnet, weaving endless lace- 
work of leaf, and reed, and bough. ’Twas a wondrous 
rosy world ! 

Out in the fields girls worked in the warm sunlight. 
Some were ploughing, some cutting the long grasses 
with a scythe, some piling new-mown hay, rusty, pink 
hay. Some tended the orchard trees. Girls, girls, girls ! 
Don almost forgot his cherry-cheeked Therese in his 
admiration of the numerous pretty girls in the fields. 

‘^We shall descend here,” said Therese presently, as the 
airship began to settle down gracefully into a flowered 
meadow beside a tiny lake. As they touched ground she 
leaped out with boyish agility. ^‘And now for a run in 
the meadows, but first my pipe ! You don’t mind my 
smoking ?” 

Don frowned aggressively. ^^Not that, Therese.” 

‘^And why ?” came her cool query. 

‘^For the same reason I gave before; women should 
not smoke. It is masculine, unwomanly, ungraceful,” 
returned Don sententiously. 

^Wou are not the first man who protested. But so 
long as you do not smoke I don’t care,” and Therese lit 


16 THE ROSE-COLORED WORLD 


her pipe and puffed easily and contentedly to Don’s 
horror. 

won’t budge if you don’t stop that.” And he leaned 
against a tree and looked sternly at the little woman. 
^^Everywhere I see girls working, smoking, and not a 
man to be seen. Nevertheless, I object to your smoking 
on every ground. If you continue blowing at that hor- 
rible pipe I’ll blow too.” 

Therese laughed gaily. ‘^No, sir; you won’t do that. 
What would the people say?” 

' "Oh, hang the people !” 

"Don !’’ reprovingly. 

"Well?” 

Then Therese settled herself on the stump of an oak 
tree as if to read him a lecture and said gravely : "Men 
should look handsome, and dress well, and please the eye 
of woman. That’s enough. Don’t spoil it by smoking. 
We women admire your handsome figures, your fine 
faces, the set of your tie, the tilt of your hat, the hang 
of your coat. Come, dear boy, don’t spoil what nature 
meant to be so attractive to women by smoking. It is 
not manly.” 

Don removed his hat, ran his fingers through his hair 
and sighed desperately, "Therese, what does all this 
mean?” and he waved his hands toward the roseate 
fields. 

"The reign of woman,” answered she calmly. 

"Not the golden age?” suggested Don mischievously. 

"No. The Roseate Age, woman’s age!” exclaimed 
Therese joyously. "The world runs on oiled wheels. 


THE ROSE-COLORED WORLD 


17 


The sky is full of hope, the woods are rich in hope ; the 
sea overflows with hope — ^warm, glowing hope, wonder- 
ful hope!’’ 

^^And for what?” meekly asked Don, half smiling. 

'Tor the reason that it exists,” returned Therese in a 
patronizing tone, glancing with pity at her companion 
for his lack of knowledge. "Men got worn out mentally 
and physically piling fortunes, working all day and all 
night to pay milliners, modistes, masseuses — and nerve 
sanitariums. They degenerated to pigmies in will, in- 
tellect, physique. There are only a few men — real men 
— left. That is why all the girls are after you.” 

"Me !” exclaimed Don, losing his breath. 

"Why, yes. Proposal, don’t you know? Only you 
are engaged,” said Therese lightly. 

"To whom, pray?” begged Don, with a Moses-like 
calm. 

"To me,” came her sa voire faire reply. "Hope you 
don’t object to this line of tobacco. Best I could get.” 

"Oh, no,” murmured Don, bewildered, comprehending 
at last why so few men were about the world and also 
Therese’s cool possession of himself. 

"You know that I proposed to you, Don.” 

"Did you ?” laughed he hysterically. 

"Of course !” from Therese somewhat indignantly. 

"And when?” he continued in ecstasy. 

"Now don’t be saucy, boy 1” And Therese shook her 
finger at him. 

"Saucy! By Jove! I was longing to tell you how I 
loved you ages ago and to propose, but feared 


18 


THE ROSE-COLORED WORLD 


‘Wou are not a modest man/’ interrupted Therese. 
^^It is a woman’s place to make love, to propose and 
other such things.” 

Whereupon Don tried to slip his arm around her 
waist. 

‘‘Don’t forget yourself,” reproved Therese sternly. 

Don glanced lovingly at the trim little woman trip- 
ping along beside him in her sweet white muslin gown 
and hat of marguerites. 

“So men are done for — city men, too ?” he inquired to 
change the subject, which had grown somewhat compli- 
cated. 

“Oh, they are awful! So affected, so luxurious, all 
nerves, culture and emotions. You are such a dear, 
simple country fellow, so true, so natural. That is why 
I love you. City men are unnatural, like forced fruit — 
hot-house creatures ! None for me, please !” And The- 
rese flicked some ashes off her muslin dress and tossed 
her head knowingly. 

“And the women?” ventured Don, bent on gaining 
what knowledge he could of this new world. 

“Oh, the women are piling up the money, and making 
the laws, and playing toss and catch with the stock mar- 
ket. Women are steering the airships, hunting the gold 
mines, inventing ” 

“Same as the men did !” interrupted he, half sarcasti- 
cally. 

“Yes,” enthusiastically. 

“And the end ?” inquired Don quizzically. 


THE ROSE-COLORED WORLD 19 

‘‘Roseate glory ! Eternal happiness !” exclaimed the 
enthusiast, her brown eyes sparkling with delight. 

“And if the women and the men continue thus And 
Don could have kissed the little face upturned so hope- 
fully to him. 

“We are living in eternity now/^ smiled Therese con- 
fidently. 

“And the women will not degenerate as the men?’^ 
asked Don humbly. 

“How could they demanded she haughtily. 

“A woman’s reason/’ sighed Don. “And why shouldn’t 
they, I would like to know ?” 

Because ” and Therese stopped short. 

And then Therese threw her arms around his neck 
and the man responded with great heartiness, forgetting 
the cigar, remembering only the woman’s lips — her lips 
so red and sweet, red as the rose-colored world. 

“If this is to live in the woman’s world, may it con- 
tinue forever!” he cried ardently, holding her tenderly 
in his arms. 

And then Don awoke. 

“How dare you !” broke suddenly on his ears. “You 
horrid man! And we are not even engaged!” And 
some one struggled out of his arms. 

“Dear me !” laughed Don, opening his eyes wide. “I 
thought we were engaged.” 

And then as he glanced amazedly at the green leaves 
overhead and at Therese’s blushing face of discomfiture 


20 


THE ROSE-COLORED WORLD 


he added: “I was going to hint about the day, but as 
you proposed 

'T didn^t do anything of the kind indignantly pro- 
tested Therese. ‘Wou are half asleep.” 

"Asleep !” Don stretched out his arms toward her. 

Therese retired. "Yes, you have been sleeping here 
under the trees.” 

"And you came to find me?” said he, advancing to- 
ward her. 

"No, I didn’t!” Therese turned her head away, 
very dignified. 

"Then I have been asleep in a rose-colored world. But 
small wonder, with you so near ! It was love that colored 
my dream.” 

"What dream?” from inquisitive Therese.^ 

"My dream of the reign of woman in the rose-colored 
world,” Don returned, adding deliberately : "And about 
the day, Therese ?” 

But Therese fied away among the trees. 


MARIE; OR, THE GIRL IN THE 
GINGHAM GOWN 

Who would have thought it of Marie ! Plain, common 
Marie ! A queer girl Marie. Queer had she been all her 
life long. Queer in her childhood, queer in her girlhood, 
queer in her womanhood. Was she a woman? Half 
child, half woman, Marie. Hot like other girls was she. 
And Marie knew. Marie laughed; lightly laughed she 
and went on her way. But there were tears in her 
laughter. 

In the city of the Lotus-eaters Marie was born, a 
child among other children. A child of Hature was she, 
wild and free as the winds, pure as the new-blown sea 
foam, happy as the humming bird as it bills from flower 
to flower. She romped with the boys and she sat among 
the apple blossoms, dreaming dreams. How she longed 
to be free, free as the air ! And no one understood. But 
a great Are burned in Marie’s soul, a Are lit by God. 

Times there were when Marie’s merriment vanished 
like April sunshine, times when melancholy sat heavy 
on the sensitive, imaginative child. Her thoughts wept 
with the rains, her emotions brooded with the clouds, and 
in her soul a direful dirge chanted to the tempest. Er- 
21 


22 


MARIE 


ratio Marie, said the Lotus-eaters, a helpless girl, guid- 
ing her bark by every wandering star. Steeped in the 
sadness and the dreariness of life, what weird and woe- 
ful visions gathered in her baby brain ! A sheltered spot 
would Marie seek and there retire to ramble in a world 
of reflection, to mourn over the sorrowful things, the 
imagined and the real. There would she cry and break 
her baby heart. And no one saw but God. 

Marie’s soul echoed with music, pathetic, passionate 
music. She loved the music of Norway, the music of 
Scotland, the melodies of Grieg and Tschaikowsky, the 
simple folk song of the Highlands, the heart harmonies 
of human souls bound by granite mountains, by fields 
of ice and stormy seas. How intensely she loved this 
region of reverberation! The unutterable longing, the 
restlessness, the tragedy, the tempest-tossed spirit yearn- 
ing for freedom; it chanted there in the wailing melo- 
dies of the Northlands. And through it all the still, 
small voice of love, dreaming in the lull of the hurricane, 
despairing in its fury, flaming in the lightning and 
dying, dying in the rays of the sun so rare in the north- 
lands. Like the music was Marie, a wandering minor 
chord in the symphony of life. Lonely, timid, loving 
Marie ! 

And there were hours of sun for Marie, buoyant hours. 
Hours that leaped with the dancing breeze. Hours 
flitting with fantasies, when the birds whistled of love 
and the butterflies winged from flower to flower ; when 
the sky was softer for love ; when the zephyrs kissed the 
leafy world and sighed among the grasses; when bios- 


MARIE 


23 


soms burst and breathed of love. And love sang on the 
waves of the sea, and love bathed in the dawn, and love 
nestled in the bosom of the whitest clouds, and all day 
long love roamed whither it would and fell asleep in the 
arms of the sunset. For Marie loved and God knew. 

And the fantasy faded as snowflakes melt in a stream, 
as snowflakes melt in the stream of life to refresh some 
thirsty flower, as snowflakes melt into nothingness, to 
serve. 

Solitary among spellbound rocks wandered the lonely 
spirit of Marie. Hid was the sunlight, vanished were 
the golden fields, the wooded hills, the sparkling sea. 
Desolate and lost, poor Marie ! The iron rocks crushed 
in upon her; no cleft for love to flow through. The 
bleak and barren mountains closed her vision. The drear 
and dismal solitudes spread before her eyes. In gloomy 
deserts, where never foot of man trod, fled the spirit of 
Marie. Ever gray was the sky and sunbeams rare. 
There were times when cruel, black clouds surged in 
fury across the desolation, frowning angry clouds. Wild, 
hopeless melodies moaned in Marie’s heaven. Fierce 
lightning pierced the gloom ; it darted hither and thither, 
rending the rocks, roaring among the mountains, whirl- 
ing across the wastes. And a cry of despair shrieked 
from the heart of the wind. ’Twas the soul of the 
northlands; Twas music, but music run wild; ’twas 
love, but love repelled; Twas a heart silently hoarding 
love, but love that found no outlet. ’Twas just Marie ! 

In the city of the Lotus-eaters was a turmoil of rest- 
lessness, hunger and thirst, rage and loneliness, jealousy 


24 


MARIE 


and dissatisfaction and despair, dark, indolent despair. 
For no God ruled the city. The little weed of self grew 
to a forest, a tangled, dense forest. Ko clear paths cut 
this unhappy region, no Shekinah pointed a way through 
its blackness, and deep in the forest was hidden so sim- 
ple a thing — a cross. 

In the city of the Lotus-eaters was a great ball given. 
In a splendid palace where luxury and loneliness, like 
hollow-eyed specters, mingled in the maze of a strange 
dance. The ceilings flared with a thousand lights; the 
sickening sweetness of roses drowsed like the sultry heat 
of noonday and hung on the atmosphere like a pall ; the 
walls were banked with roses, roses slowly wilting in the 
vitiated air. Cushions and divans luxuriated in comers 
and in stray places. Softened lights burned with a red 
gleam in odd nooks. Flowing, melting melodies vibrated 
from a hidden orchestra, hidden in a bower of lilies, pure 
and white — lilies and roses perishing to adorn the ball- 
room and withering in the heat of indolence. And the 
wine of life rippled with the music and the dance. For 
the little weed of self was making merry. 

And Marie was there in a gingham gown ! 

Soon the ballroom glowed with life. Men and women 
lightly skipped the hours away. Wine danced with the 
moments. Age rested wearily on the easy divans. Youth 
nestled into the soft cushions; youth dozed in corners 
and dreamed in nooks; youth loved in the mystery of 
the red lights; youth thrilled to the melting music; 
youth sipped the wine and tossed its ruby drops, so like 
blood. And the little weed of self grew. 


MARIE 


25 


And Marie served alone ; Marie in her gingham gown ; 
Marie, the page of grand ladies ; Marie, the footstool of 
men ; Marie, the target of youth, of the barbed arrows of 
envy and spite, of the poisoned arrows of jealousy and 
revenge; plain, common Marie, the helpless, rudderless 
woman-child ! Just Marie ! 

Marie ! Marie in a gingham gown ! 

Hither, Marie ; mend this old dame’s train, ’tis torn. 
And here a dark maiden has soiled her skirt, a maiden 
with chestnut hair and eyes of blue. Come hither, 
Marie! Here are maidens with auburn hair; flatter 
them, praise them ; it is their life. And here are black- 
eyed damsels, with eyes like scornful darts; they have 
stumbled over your heart, Marie. But it matters not. 
And who are these that curl their lips with pretty, 
poisoned sarcasms? The fair-haired maidens of stoic 
mold. Put on their shoes, Marie. Wipe the dust from 
beneath their feet. And here are gray-haired dames, 
who mistake heart’s blood for wine, who spill it out of 
golden cups and care not. Have they spilled your heart’s 
blood, Marie ? Ah ! that is nothing. 

Marie, Marie I Come hither, Marie ! Here is a girl 
painting, painting in a corner. She will paint your 
heart, Marie. She will paint it in black, and gray, and 
blood. Let her paint. What is a heart? Nothing, 
nothing — ^more or less. 

Come hither, Marie! Here are men who will crush 
you, rest their cloven feet upon you. Joy in it, child! 
’Tis service for them, noble service. Here is a man who 
has fallen. Lift him; let him lean on your shoulder. 


26 MARIE 

Ah! it may pain you. But what is pain? Nothing, 
nothing — more or less. 

Throw your heart to the herd, Marie. They will but 
trample upon it. Lay your service at their feet. They 
will but scorn you. But lift your head, and they would 
kill you. Beware, Marie I Marie in the gingham gown ! 

Come hither, Marie ! There is lowly service for you, 
half woman, half child. Here is a lonely woman. Give 
her a lily, fresh and pure. Here is a heart-sore man. 
Give him sweet wine and a smile, a smile of hope, such 
as the angels give. 

Reckon not with the silken gowns, Marie. Forget the 
glaring lights. Notice not the dance, the wine, for there 
are roses fading on the walls and lilies perishing for 
want of water. 

Marie, Marie ! who do you see ? What is there ? Why 
do you tremble so ? Why haste you to a lonely room and 
weep, weep in silence and sorrow ? Who would hurt you, 
Marie, half child, half woman? Who would tear the 
wings from a bird or nip the flower from the humming 
bee? 

Come hither, Marie ! 

But Marie comes not. Who will mend the torn skirts 
and dust the soiled feet? Who will think of the lonely, 
the sad, the fallen ? 

Come, Marie. One maiden will coax with a pair of 
red slippers, but the buckles are broken off. Another 
will lend a soiled gown of blue. A man will press your 
hand, but it will burn your hand in the pressing. Will 
you have nothing ? Come, Marie, you need not weep. 


MARIE 


27 


One by one the lights die out. The crowd disperses. 
Far away echo the voices of the departing merry makers. 
The music lingers a moment and is silenced. And 
Marie weeps alone. But God sees. 

The crowd paused. Marie is weeping, weeping. Why, 
Marie has a heart! Who would have thought it of 
Marie? Marie with a broken heart! Plain, common 
Marie! Marie in the gingham gown. Marie and love. 
Think of it ! 

Deep in the forest was hidden so simple a thing — a 
cross. 

Marie ! Marie in the gingham gown ! 


ANDY’S VISION 


^Twas many years ago ! 

Andy MacKerrie was an only son, an unspoiled son. 
And no one would have thought it possible that religious 
Mrs. Amantha MacKerrie’s wee, pale-faced boy would 
have had such an experience. But religious parents 
sometimes bring unique children into the world. Cer- 
tainly Andy was an anomaly. That Mrs. MacKerrie 
should be so unfortunate as to have a child out of the 
ordinary was something to be pitied indeed and a fact 
to be hid from the neighbors. So when the revelation 
of the vision came Mrs. Amantha MacKerrie pondered 
much, but wisely kept the matter to herself. 

Else what would the neighbors have said? 

Great chums were Andy and his father, the heart-in- 
heart sort. They hung together like burrs. Andy’s 
mother was severely religious, streaked a wee bit too 
much with the steel-gray paint of the Covenanters, highly 
proper in all things and something hard. ^‘Don’t, don’t, 
don’t!” was the wearisome song of Andy’s daily life. 
Consequently his jolly father, with his braw, hale and 
hearty ways, became Andy’s hero, his all. 

Andy and his father seemed to know each other’s 
28 


ANDY’S VISION 


thoughts without much explanation. They understood 
each other, which occasionally happens between mor- 
tals, though not often enough to disturb the natural 
processes of character culture. Their sympathies were 
keen and sensitive, especially when Mrs. Amantha Mac- 
Kerrie started a religious storm in the house. 

When his father set out for India Andy was fourteen 
years old. To Andy it seemed a long journey from Edin- 
burgh to India. And journeys were not made so quickly 
nor so easily in those days as now. Andy felt that his 
father was going to the ends of the earth. 

Letters were rare long ago, few and far between, ac- 
cording with the smooth or stormy passage of the ships. 
News traveled slowly. So the year wore past wearily for 
Andy. 

December had spread its bleak mantle over Edinburgh. 
The streets were sloppy. Damp exhumed from the gray 
stone houses. Dour mists enveloped the castle and Ar- 
thur’s Seat and belated vapors smothered the beauty of 
Princes Street. A leaden sky hung gloomily overhead 
and a bitter east wind blew down from Calton Hall, and 
everywhere the atmosphere sniffed of coke, and soot, and 
sea water. ’Twas hopeless weather, but one ray of sun 
split upon Andy’s sky. His mother had received an 
epistle from India. 

Within a month Mr. MacKerrie would be home, per- 
haps by New Year’s Day. Andy walked on air. Poor 
laddie ! He was longing for his father. How endless 
the year had seemed without him! And now it was 
nearly over. Andy’s heart grew light. Every day he 


30 


ANDY’S VISION 


thought of his father and planned of the wonderful 
things he and his father would do. How he hungered 
for a sight of him ! 

Christmas Day arrived, and slow and stupid was the 
day for Andy. Mrs. Amantha MacKerrie ever accepted 
it as a religious duty she had to perform, and perform 
well. The plum pudding was sanctimonious, even to the 
lack of currants and raisins. The turkey had lived the 
life of a recluse ; its abstemious faring was plainly visible 
in the lack of fat on its scraray frame. Poor Andy ! 

’Twas a dour lonesome day. Forlorn indeed, for it 
poured all day, soft, permeating, melancholy rain. It 
rained as Scotch weather knows how to rain. And the 
doleful patter, patter measured each hour. 

Andy was not allowed to yell, so could make no noise 
to drown the sound of the rain. Such vulgar conduct 
merited a severe discipline of bread, water and bed. His 
mother never considered his age. He was ever a frac- 
tious laddie, at least she thought so, and it mattered 
little what any one else thought. 

Christmas evening at last dragged wearily into exist- 
ence. Andy had made brave efforts to enjoy himself all 
day. He had done everything that he was allowed to do. 
Every hour he had courageously determined not to be 
lonely, not to think of his father, not to hear the monoto- 
nous dirge of the raindrops. Nothing succeeded. Finally 
he picked out a favorite book from his father’s small 
library and curled into an easy chair by a skimpy fire 
of his mother’s mending. ’Twas no use ! 

Andy left his book and went to a window. A dismal 


ANDY’S VISION 


31 


prospect met his eyes. Eain dropped into the lifeless 
areas. It rolled wearily off the cobblestones and into 
streams that ran anywhere and everywhere downhill. It 
soaked into the little park square and polished the leaves 
of the holly and laurel trees. And it ran off the iron 
railings. The foot passengers looked as miserable as 
the weather, collars up and a general air of wilting and 
despair. An occasional dray scraped past or a hansom 
scurried along. The lamps were lighted and glimmered 
dimly through the thick mist and the patter of the rain 
was maddening. Andy could think of nothing but the 
awful tortures of the Middle Ages. The drop, drop, drop 
slowly descending on the prisoner’s head and the mad- 
ness that closed the cruel scene in the last act of human 
misery. 

To the stingy fire Andy dolefully returned, but his 
restlessness and loneliness increased. He seized the book 
and began again. This time he succeeded fairly well. 
Indeed he was at an exciting crisis, when he felt im- 
pelled to look up. He felt that he must look up, but 
boylike he resisted the force. With dour Scotch deter- 
mination he read on. It was the first incident of the 
day that had interested him. He grew rather excited 
over it. In his awakened interest he forgot his loneli- 
ness, the pattering drops, even his father. 

’Twas overwhelming. And Andy’s curiosity got the 
better of his will. He stared a moment at the floor and 
then peered shyly up. There in the doorway his eyes 
fastened tight. Andy shivered. His heart stopped with 


32 ANDY’S VISION 

a jerk and then thumped so loudly it deafened him even 
to the rain. 

There in the doorway stood his father ! 

^‘Mercy, laddie! what are ye gapin’ at?” 

A sound box on the ear broke the spell. 

^Tf ye hae naethin’ to do but gape, say yer prayers 
and gae to bed. Ye hae muckle need o’ yer mither’s 
sperrit, sittin’ there as if ye’d seen a ghaist.” 

Andy paled, but said nothing. With Mrs. MacKer- 
rie’s voice the vision had faded, and Andy was marched 
to bed, with a slither of plum cake woefully lacking in 
plums, as a special Christmas beneficence. 

New Year’s Day came and dismally passed. No sign 
of Mr. MacKerrie’s return. 

Mrs. Amantha MacKerrie expressed stern displeasure 
on New Year’s Day when her husband made no appear- 
ance, and she vented her righteous indignation in good 
covenanting style. So New Year’s Day was as glum as 
Christmas for Andy. 

January slipped away slowly. Still no word on the 
dark and raw days. At the end of January Mrs. Mac- 
Kerrie hoped in religious zeal that nothing had hap- 
pened the ^Toolish mon.” 

February dragged its ruthless days along and ended. 
But no news of Andy’s father lightened the sadness in 
the little lad’s heart, and as February neared its close 
his mother arrayed solemnly in black and believed all 
was for the best. 

But as March advanced her spirit broke when still no 
news came. 


ANDY’S VISION 


33 


Mrs. Amantha MacKerrie loved her husband in an 
odd way. She would scold vigorously, mend his coat 
neatly and give him a square meal in the same breath, 
so to speak. She possessed the happy faculty of making 
him comfortable and wretched in the same moment. 
There are some folk built that way. 

News came at the end of March. 

Andy had suffered keenly through these past clouded 
days. Silently he had mourned his father for dead, and 
his vision came back and troubled him. He longed to 
tell his mother, but she was unapproachable about such 
things. He knew she would condemn it as ‘Vicked 
imaginings.” And she would say that he was flying in 
the face of Providence and daring the devil to do his 
worst; that such talk was enough to bring some awful 
doom upon himself — poor, little, innocent laddie! — and 
upon his home. But at last the news had come. 

Perchance there is more Providence in the things un- 
seen than in the things seen. Perchance there is a good 
spirit moving in these wandering premonitions, these 
strange inward visions, these weird, haunting presenti- 
ments. Perchance there is meaning even in our dreams. 
Pray, who can explain these mysterious, silent influ- 
ences ? And yet how frequently they come true ! But in 
these materialistic days we believe nothing, unless it 
strikes home to our reason, the way a loose board in the 
sidewalk hits us in the face. 

But the news had come at last. Andy’s father had 
been seriously ill on his return journey and had been 


S4> 


ANDY’S VISION 


left at an out-of-the-way port. He was now convales- 
cent. In a few days he would be home. 

What a load fell off Andy’s heart! And how his 
thoughts broke loose and flew to the old pleasures, and 
haunts, and games he and his father had enjoyed to- 
gether ! The dour, gray cloud had broken, and Andy’s 
heart beat high with the sunshine of anticipation. His 
father was coming home. 

From the day that the news came a great change took 
place in Mrs. Amantha MacKerrie. She rushed to the 
shops on Princes Street. She purchased a plum silk 
gown and a pink feather for a new velvet bonnet. In- 
deed she was to be a study in plum for Mr. MacKerrie’a 
arrival. 

Mrs. MacKerrie laid in a stock of mince pies, suffi- 
cient to lay waste the digestive organs of half the popu- 
lation of Auld Eeekie. She made plum puddings, so 
full of currants and raisins, there was no room left for 
the pudding. As for turkeys, the story went among the 
neighbors that she had bought a dozen and fed them 
so well that they grew too fat, and elastic bands were 
necessary, as Providence had set a limit even to the 
capacity and extension of turkeys. And the whole house 
reeked of Scotch bun, short-bread and raspberry vinegar. 

As for Andy, he was rigged in a bonnie suit of Mac- 
Kerrie tartan, with a black velvet Glengarry atop; 
sporan, plaidie, buckles and all. ^‘Just like the soldiers 
in the castle,” as he explained to his father later on, 
regretting that he had not a bagpipe, with long Mac- 


ANDY’S VISION 


S5 


Kerrie streamers flying from the pipes and ^^muckle of 
a graund noise inside ’em.” 

Of course the neighbors decided that Mrs. Amantha 
MacKerrie was going to marry again. Neighbors always 
know. 

The MacKerrie home was turned topsy-turvy. Every- 
thing that Mr. MacKerrie had disliked of the stern and 
proper in furniture and pictures of Mrs. Amantha’s 
covenanting choice mysteriously disappeared or reap- 
peared in such strangely gay and weirdly tinseled attire 
that Andy’s religious ideas sustained a nervous shock. 
New things replaced the old to a perilous extent. And 
the sober, covenanting home, with its scriptural furni- 
ture and catechism details, was metamorphosed into a 
gala display of cheap vases, alive with cupids (nude and 
shocking!), flimsy gilt chairs with limited supporting 
powers and many striped draperies and cushions not at 
all religious. The neighbors marveled at the expense 
and signaled danger to each other. 

But when Mrs. Amantha MacKerrie actually stayed 
away from church several Sundays in succession the 
deacon concluded that her morals were toppling. The 
neighbors held up their hands in holy horror. 

Kegarding Mrs. MacKerrie, she dashed at Andy a 
hundred times a day. So often did she kiss him that 
Andy, in fear that no cheek would be left for his father, 
kept blowing them out to make sure. 

’Twas amazing how much she accomplished in those 
few days ! 

As the hour of arrival neared Mrs. MacKerrie grew 


36 


ANDY’S VISION 


excited. She rushed Andy to the Waverley Station in 
a cab — Andy’s first drive. To fill up the waiting time, 
she fed Andy on currant buns and mince pies. Such 
lavish prodigality she had never been guilty of before. 
Andy’s brain, whirled in giddy confusion, and it is to 
be feared that his stomach was affected too. 

When Mr. MacKerrie appeared Mrs. Amantha Mac- 
Kerrie flew into his arms, burst into tears and squeezed 
hard what was left of him. Such a frantic display of 
love was so unwonted that the station master looked on 
in mild surprise and concluded that his neighbor, Mrs. 
Amantha MacKerrie, was very excitable and in a highly 
nervous condition. So warm and sincere feelings some- 
times appear to the onlooker, who is not at all inter- 
ested in the parties and not in the least concerned with 
events, and who, in fact, should mind his own business. 

^^Thank God !” she cried. ^^My puir mon ! I’m muckle 
glad to see ye. Never was I sae happy !” 

‘Tuire lassie!” murmured the astonished man. ‘^Are 
ye no’ feelin’ weel the day ?” 

^^Weell Weel, indeed, I should say! Ye’ll see that 
soon enough,” concluded Mrs. MacKerrie exuberantly. 
^^Come hame noo.” 

Gallantly and merrily the happy trio drove home in 
the cab. 

Surely this is no’ my solemn, releegious lassie, 
Amantha !” thought Mr. MacKerrie as he stared at his 
wife. 

And gradually Mr. MacKerrie awakened from a sus- 
tained stupor. 


ANDY’S VISION 


37 


A grand celebration followed this bewildering recep- 
tion. Mr. MacKerrie was sailing without a compass 
now and recklessly permitted himself to drift with the 
winds, wild though they were. Probably the church had 
lost its rudder since he had left Auld Eeekie. There was 
nothing for him to do but climb into the boat and wob- 
ble along in the helmless barque with the wavering mul- 
titudes. Why, they had even raffled a barrel of rum in 
one kirk, and no one seemed to mind ! It did not mat- 
ter apparently. So he gave himself up completely to the 
full enjoyment of his belated Christmas festival as Mrs. 
MacKerrie had planned it. 

And a really jolly Christmas it was! Inclusive of 
plum puddings, turkey, mince pies, short-bread, currant 
bun, and, best of all, a sparkling glass of whisky toddy ! 
(Oh, Mrs. Amantha MacKerrie!) It warmed the 
cockles of Mr. MacKerrie’s heart. 

In the evening, as they sat beside a blazing fire such 
as Andy had never seen mended there before, Mrs. Mac- 
Kerrie turned to her husband affectionately and asked: 

^^Weel, dearie, wha’ dae ye think o’ our Christmas?” 

^^Jolliest I ever kenned!” exclaimed the happy man, 
slapping his hands together enthusiastically. ^‘We’ll hae 
anither nex’ year.” 

^^We wull, indeed !” said Mrs. MacKerrie, with all her 
heart in the words. 

At the mention of Christmas Andy started nervously. 

^^Wha’s the matter, bairnie?” kindly inquired his 
mother. 

^^Naethin’ !” gasped the boy fearsomely. 


38 


ANDY’S VISION 


Mr. MacKerrie bent his eyes gravely on the boy, re- 
marking slowly : ‘‘Why, laddie, ye’re as pale as a 
ghaist !” 

That made matters worse. Andy glanced timidly to- 
ward the door the while. 

‘^Dinna mind me, dad. It’s — it’s naethin’.” 

And the boy shivered slightly. 

But Mr. MacKerrie studied the boy’s face and then 
also gazed at the open door. 

“Hae ye seen a sperrit, lad ?” he asked deliberately. 
Poor Andy nodded, too afraid to speak. 

“Just noo?” pursued his father carefully. 

“No,” whispered the frightened child. 

And now Mrs. MacKerrie became interested. 

“When did ye see a sperrit, laddie ?” 

“Last Christmas, maw.’^ 

They were all silent for a while. 

And then Mrs. MacKerrie gently inquired: 

“And where did ye see the ghaist ?” 

Andy pointed nervously to the door. 

“And wha’ did ye no’ tell us, Andy ?” 

‘T coudna, pa.” 

“Puir laddie ! Ye look awfu’ scared noo I” 

“I am muckle scared of the door, pa.” 

And tears trickled down the lad’s pale face. 

“The door, laddie!” suddenly exclaimed his mother. 
A nod from Andy. 

“Weel, weel, laddie !” cried his mother, remembering 
the night. “Wad ye hae me believe it war the time I 
found ye gapin’, gapin’ sae fearsomely at the door?” 


ANDY’S VISION 39 

With the door so near, Andy was now too scared to 
speak. 

^^The de’il !” exclaimed his father. ^An’ wha’ did ye 
see that sae frightened ye ?” 

^^’Twas yersel’, dad!” came the boy’s timorous re- 
sponse. 

Mr. MacKerrie rubbed his eyes, then rubbed his spec- 
tacles and put them on, staring the while at Andy in 
blank amazement, and the light dawned in upon him. 
Slowly it leaked into his brain. 

^^Ye saw me, lad ? The de’il ! ’Twas Christmas night 
I war e’en gi’en up for deid.” 

And Mrs. Amantha MacKerrie believed, but she did 
not tell it to the neighbors. For it was Andy’s vision. 


THE HERMIT OF SAGUENAY 


Once upon a time in a little village of Quebec, on the 
edge of the Saguenay River, where the rocks frown for- 
ever, grew up a little gargon, Frangois by name. In 
spirit Frangois was a lonely, isolated boy. He played 
and fought with the boys of the village, yet remained 
separate from them ; separate with the refined nature of 
a poetic soul; separate with a glowing spark of the 
Saint Esprit. A strange, dreamy gargon Frangois, who 
buried his spare hours from play among his flowers. 

As the years went on a little girl grew up in the cot- 
tage next to Frangois’ home. A petite, hazel-eyed girl ; 
Isolde they called her. Fair as the narcissus among 
Frangois’ flowers and as sweet, straight and pure. She, 
too, was an isolated child, but the isolation was that of 
frailty. She never romped with the other children. A 
delicate flower was Isolde, light as a breath of wind and 
as easily bent as the grass in the field, wind swept. 

The years floated on. Isolde and Frangois drew to- 
gether from opposite poles of life. Frangois was big, 
and strong, and hearty, a robust, blue-eyed gargon. But 
the poetry of the flowers rhymed the natures of the two 
children. They dreamed together the seasons through, 
40 


THE HERMIT OF SAGUENAY 


41 


from the chill time of the crocus and the awakening of 
the hyacinth and the violet till the roses shed their leaves 
and the golden rod faded with the reddening of the 
autumnal foliage. 

Wonderful visions had Frangois and Isolde! Some 
were sweet with fairies, others dark and tragic like the 
Saguenay. 

One day they sat under the trees in Frangois’ garden, 
reading a weird tale from a book of fairy stories. And 
the sunshine streamed through the branches, flecking the 
brown curls of the boy as he read and falling on Isolde’s 
pale face as she lay on the grass beside him. 

The wind skipped down the Saguenay and tossed the 
waves with white foam. The sun poured over the bare 
rocks, the scrubby trees and the black waters, throwing 
long, fantastic shadows across the gray wilds of peak and 
cove. Bluish vapors floated above the rocky ramparts. 
Here and there a trickling streamlet tumbled down the 
proud precipices. And the occasional note of a bird 
trilled from the stern solitudes, a tender sound in the 
midst of granite silence, remote and sweet. 

It was a strange story they read together and wonder- 
fully illustrated, and the boy and girl thrilled with its 
horrors. It told of the adventures of a boy who had 
wandered, by some mischance, into a giant’s palace, 
hidden underground. Great stony sphinxes glared at 
him out of the cliff-like walls. Petrified grins mocked 
the frightened wanderer as he entered deeper into the 
cavernous passages and halls. Amid the glowering eyes 
and gaping mouths the boy lost himself. Yawning 


42 


THE HERMIT OF SAGUENAY 


crevices opened to swallow him into an abyss of gloom. 
Black hands of rock were stretched out to grasp him as 
he hurried on. Great precipices of rock hung overhead, 
as if ready to fall upon the terror-stricken child. The boy 
felt that the walls would crush in upon him and kill him. 
Everywhere a maze of rocky windings, everywhere a mist 
of impenetrable darkness. Rare gleams of light shone 
across the passages, only to throw into terrifying relief 
the grinning faces and outstretched arms of stone. The 
lonely wanderer pursued his trembling way, fearful and 
despairing. For the fear of being crushed to death 
haunted and tormented him. 

They were in the midst of the tale when Isolde jumped 
up suddenly and caught the book out of Frangois’ hands. 

^'Stop, Frangois !” she cried in a half terror. ^T can’t 
stand it any more. It is awful !” 

Frangois looked up coolly. ^^What’s the matter with 
it? I think it is fine,” said he. 

don’t care if you do ! I won’t hear another word 
of it. Never again !” And Isolde threw the book into 
the hedge. 

Frangois got up quietly, went over to the hedge and 
picked it up. Whereupon Isolde stamped her little foot 
and demanded defiantly: 

^‘Frangois, what would you do if you were caught in a 
great, awful palace like that and could not get out ?” 

Frangois sat in silence awhile, staring at his flowers. 
'T wouldn’t mind at all if there were flowers in the pal- 
ace,” and then glancing at Isolde, ^^and, most of all, if 
you were there.” 


THE HERMIT OF SAGUENAY 


43 


what if there were no flowers T’ persisted Isolde, 
half angry, half inquisitive. 

^T’d have you. And I'd rather have you than the 
flowers a million times !" answered Frangois composedly. 

^‘But what if I wasn’t there, what would you do?” 
pursued the fair inquirer. 

Frangois’ face grew dark and he frowned. “I’d flght 
my way out,” he said determinedly. 

“Why ?” worried Isolde, now bent on teasing. 

^Tecause I couldn’t live without you, and I’d flght 
my way back to you and the flowers somehow.” And a 
cloud crossed Frangois’ face as he glanced at the slim, 
pale-faced girl standing in the sunlight. 

“And if you couldn’t do that?” queried Isolde, begin- 
ning to be appeased. 

“I’d die bravely, thinking of you, Isolde, and the 
flowers.” And Frangois set his lips firmly. 

Then Isolde ran up to him and threw her arms around 
his neck. Frangois caught her passionately and kissed 
her sweet lips. And the fairy tale ended, for Isolde 
would never listen to it again. 

Frangois and Isolde played together, sang together and 
sometimes quarreled. The quarrels were always mended 
by flowers. And Frangois, knowing how big and strong 
he was compared to pale, petite Isolde, always made the 
first advances. Over the hedge that separated the two 
homes Frangois flung some flowers, and the flowers were 
violets so long as the violets bloomed. Frangois and 
Isolde loved them, and the beloved garden patch ever 
kept a space for these modest maids of flowerland. The 


THE HERMIT OF SAGUENAY 


44 

violets duly received by Isolde as a peace offering, she 
offered her sweet, red lips over the hedge and the breach 
was mended. 

^Twas a wonderfully happy life they lived ! 

Their school days were full of adventures. When 
Isolde was in trouble Frangois helped her out. When 
her lessons plodded in the slough of despond he leant a 
hand and a good brain and pulled his little sweetheart 
on to solid ground. And so Isolde and Frangois grew 
up like twin flowers in spirit. Frangois was like the 
deep, dark Saguenay; Isolde the stream that bubbled 
over the rocks and fell into the silent soul of the 
Saguenay. 

As Isolde blossomed into womanhood her delicacy in- 
creased. The fair features became transparent and the 
long, white hands thin like rose leaves, veined with violet. 
The hazel e3^es grew larger, brighter and a slight tinge 
of pink ■ flushed her gentle cheeks. Frangois smiled 
gaily, but in his heart he began to wonder and to worry. 
It seemed as if his fair flower was blossoming into its 
fullness of beauty only to fade. 

Days flew past as the two loved and wandered together. 
Isolde was too frail to work, so her days were spent 
among the flowers or by the river. And when his day’s 
work was done Frangois joined his fair Isolde and. the 
flowers or in the twilight they rambled by the Saguenay. 

One moonlight night they wandered to the cliffs. The 
sky was clear and the moon shone in full glory, twinkling 
in ribbons of stars on the wav«8 and shooting lights and 
shadows among the dark precipices and somber bays. A 


THE HERMIT OF SAGUENAY 


45 


palace steamer was slowly gliding up the river. In the 
infinite twinings of the Saguenay the moonlight struck 
athwart the bows or drifted in streams of silver sheen at 
the stern, broken by the receding swells of the steamer, 
like the starry tale of a comet. ^Twas a beautiful and 
solemn scene, weird and poetic ! An endless shoreline of 
gloomy cliffs, frigid in the cold moonlight and threaten- 
ing in their dull massiveness, followed the windings of 
the Saguenay. Isolde wondered, as the vessel glided on, 
which way it would turn next, and almost doubted at 
times whether it would find a way out at all as the 
barricade of rocks spread before it. The defiant cliffs 
were but sparsely clad with trees, which hid their rugged, 
bare surfaces, their jutting, menacing boulders and over- 
hanging rocks. Music floated from the salon of the 
vessel, but its gayety died among the silent precipices. 
And the somber spirit of the Saguenay settled down 
again as the gay lights of the steamer vanished up the 
river. 

Indeed, the Saguenay was rather a realization of the 
fantastic fairy tale which Isolde and Frangois had begun 
to read years ago when they were children. Its eeriness 
was something to be felt but not to be explained. It was 
something inherent in the scenery, especially by moon- 
light, which defined the wild, desolate cliffs in one part 
and blurred them in another. It was something sug- 
gestive and unfulfilled, like a cry of agony from the 
human heart or a beautiful picture that has been marred 
forever. 

The river flowed on unmindful of the whirl of waters 


46 


THE HERMIT OF SAGUENAY 


ruffled by the steamer’s screw. It flowed on between 
mountain peaks and amid unseen valleys; breathing no 
word of the buried lands beneath ; breathing nothing of 
the lives lost in its black waves, waves which laved few 
resting places for man, but beat continuously at the 
base of impregnable cliffs in the weird River Saguenay. 

For some time Isolde and Frangois had stood looking 
out on the gloomy, moonlit river and beyond to the 
stern, frowning precipices, and then Isolde broke the 
silence. 

^^Do you remember that horrid tale of the lost boy in 
the giant’s palace which we read years ago ?” 

“You mean began to read,” suggested Frangois with 
mock solemnity. 

Isolde laughed. never let you finish it, did I ?” she 
said. 

“No, but I remember it yet. Some day we shall read 
it through, cherie,” he answered. 

“No, indeed ! I won’t listen to it,” she exclaimed, half 
defiantly. 

Frangois glanced down at the frail little girl beside 
him before he spoke and then said in a tender, teasing 
tone: “Despite all my training, despite everything, you 
are the same self-willed Isolde of those long-ago days, 
so we shall not read the harrowing tale if you don’t like 
it.” 

Isolde smiled and then she said quietly: “I hope I 
shall be self-willed in heaven, if shutting my ears to 
tragedy is being self-willed. And that tale was a horrid 
tragedy. The Saguenay always makes me think of it. 


THE HERMIT OF SAGUENAY 


47 


Those great, cruel cliffs ! Fancy tipping over in a row- 
boat out there on the river ! One might swim but could 
never scale those steep rocks.” 

And Isolde shuddered. 

^^What gloomy thoughts on a night like this, Isolde !” 
exclaimed the young man. 

was not thinking of myself. I was thinking of 
you,” she returned, as if thinking aloud. 

^‘Well, I am not going to drown in the Saguenay!” 
cried Frangois, laughing. 

Isolde was silent and a wistful look came into her 
face as she glanced up at Frangois. A stern expression 
had come into his fearless blue eyes, as if he were having 
a struggle with some dark foreboding or cruel, unwel- 
come thought. 

^^Suppose you had to live alone on one of those distant 
islands away over there in the river?” inquired Isolde 
softly. 

‘T am not thinking of such things, Isolde. While I 
have you I will live and love.” But Frangois bit his lip 
hard. 

'^WouldnT you like to be a hermit?” asked Isolde 
again dreamily. 

^‘Never !” burst out Frangois passionately. 

Isolde looked at him in surprise. It was not like 
Frangois to be otherwise than cool. This sudden, pas- 
sionate outburst amazed her. 

^‘Why ?” demanded she. 

And Frangois caught her to his breast for answer and 
covered her face with his kisses. 


48 


THE HERMIT OF SAGUENAY 


But Frangois never slept that night. Isolde’s thoughts 
had disturbed the depths of his soul’s river, the silence 
of pain to which he had been shutting his eyes. Isolde 
was growing more frail every day. 

Many days of soft, glowing joy, which had risen with 
the dawn of love, glided swiftly away. And then came 
great sorrow for Frangois. Isolde, frail always, declined 
daily. Too weak for their rambles now, she sat in a 
chair all day on the veranda and Frangois spent every 
spare moment by her side. Frangois and Isolde knew 
now that the end was not far off. 

And bravely the man endured his sorrow, patiently 
resigned while Isolde lived. And sweet were their last 
talks at sunset time, when the day’s work was done and 
the sleepy twittering of the birds announced the coming 
of night. Isolde was peacefully gliding into eternity. 
Some sweet day she and Frangois would be together in a 
world where flowers never faded. And there would be 
flowers! Such beautiful flowers! And always, always 
violets ! 

And one sunny summer day the sweet spirit of Isolde 
faded away and the first great agony of loneliness fell 
upon Frangois. He gathered all his violets and Imd them 
on his little sweetheart — a violet among the violets, mod- 
est, gentle, sweet. Quietly was the frail little body of 
Isolde laid in its last resting place. And the flowers of 
each season came and went, and the dews, and the snows 
fell softly upon Isolde’s grave. 

Day by day Frangois’ loneliness increased. Day by 
day he battled with the fevered spirit that bade him rush 


THE HERMIT OF SAGUENAY 


49 


into the world and lose himself in its mad whirl. Long, 
somber days were these of temptation. And the fairy 
tale came back, the tale of the boy shut among the cruel, 
grinning rocks, with no light and no refuge. The stern 
solitude of the Saguenay pressed in upon him, its reti- 
cence unrelaxed, its majesty unsoftened, its solitude un- 
broken, its eeriness impenetrable and its cold dignity 
uncontrolled by the gentleness of the sunshine or the 
mingling of light, shadow and distance. Here by the 
Saguenay, near Isolde’s grave, he must live and endure in 
solitary agony. Frangois was being crushed, but crushed 
for a purpose he could not see. 

But the memory of his loved Isolde conquered. And 
then came the gift of le Saint Esprit — ^peace. 

Prangois decided to join the priesthood and consecrate 
his life to good deeds and kindness. On an isle of the 
Saguenay, a lone isle, he built his log cabin. He laid out 
a small vegetable garden. He collected the herbs of the 
woods and extracted from them medicines and potions 
to use in sickness, and the poor habitants soon learned 
to love and trust him. He ministered to every one who 
sought his isle. The Isle of Peace it was called. And 
Frangois the Hermit dwelt there to the end. 

The wild storm of passion was over. Frangois, gentle 
and loving like Isolde, was living her life over again, 
unconscious of its beauty. 

The years rolled quietly by the Isle of Peace, years of 
usefulness. Rowboats shot out from the shore and soon 
found their way to the little landing of Frangois’ isle. 
He had spent his early days in prayer, and solitude, and 


50 


THE HERMIT OF SAGUENAY 


vigils. But now pilgrims and visitors sought him from 
everywhere, for innate in Frangois the Hermit was a 
wonderful power of healing and inspiring. Rich and 
poor alike sought Frangois the Hermit, and his fame 
spread abroad. 

When lonely passengers sailed past his isle he waved 
a welcome. If barques were wrecked within reach of his 
rowboat his muscular arms swiftly brought him to the 
rescue, and safety and warmth were found by his kindly 
hearth. His hospitable roof awaited all lonely strangers 
and generously he gave of his few comforts. 

Alone among the scrubby trees stood the hermit’s cot- 
tage, alone on an isle of the Saguenay, surrounded by the 
solitary peaks and somber cliffs. Its little garden, sweet 
with violets and bright with the stray shrubs and flowers 
of his rocky realm. 

But Frangois was growing old, and every day the long- 
ing for Isolde, ever alive, became more painful. He fal- 
tered in his steps. His broad shoulders and big frame 
bent with the years and his hair turned snow white. He 
grew frail and weak like Isolde. The vegetable garden 
was neglected, the herbs ungathered, the potions ceased. 

Lost in his own sorrow, the visitors and pilgrims soon 
ceased to come. And the lone Isle of Peace was deserted 
by all. None whom he had helped succored him now; 
none whom he had blessed aided him. He aged alone, 
sorrowing. 

But the spirit of Isolde never left him. Day by day he 
shrunk into feebleness. Day by day he neglected his 
bodily wants and prayed, prayed longingly, hungrily. 


THE HERMIT OF SAGUENAY 


51 


And one sweet summer day, the day on which Isolde 
died, Frangois the Hermit sat on his porch. The wind 
glided whisperingly through the trees; the waves laved 
peacefully among the rocks; the smell of the violets 
breathed tenderly on the air. Frangois sat alone, a tiny 
bunch of violets in his hands. Silently he was dreaming 
over the wonderful long ago, the dear days of Isolde. 
How his heart cried out for her ! Isolde ! Isolde ! 

And then a great light fell round about him. And in 
its midst the fair face and sweet hazel eyes of Isolde 
smiled upon him. 

^Tsolde ! Isolde he cried in ecstasy. 

‘‘What would you have ?” she asked. 

“Take me ! take me he answered pitifully. 

“Thou hast been faithful to me indeed !” she said. 

“That is nothing,’’ he murmured. “I loved you!” 

“Thou hast done all things for my sake and God loves 
you as you have loved me,” she returned gently, 

Frangois the Hermit held out his arms and cried : 

“I love you ! I love you ! Isolde ! Isolde 1” 

“Come !” answered she, smiling as only angels smile. 

And Frangois’ spirit fled with hers to the land of eter- 
nal flowers. 

And the world wondered and went on its way. For 
Frangois the Hermit was found dead, alone, with a bunch 
of violets in his hands ! And the world marveled at his 
choice of a lonely life, with the whirl of mad joys blazing 
around him. Why waste precious days on a lone isle? 
The man was mad I 

So the fairy tale of Frangois and Isolde ended — too 


52 


THE HERMIT OF SAGUENAY 


beautiful for worldly minds to understand, too unselfish 
for earth-born beings to comprehend — ^just a dream of 
love between a man and a woman, but a love that is as 
rare as rubies I 


THE PRINCESS AND THE 
CUP-BEARER 

In the days of the fairies there was once a great prin- 
cess, a beautiful princess. Dark eyes like the deep sea 
glowed proudly upon the world, the pride of innocence ; 
dark chestnut hair waved freely on every breeze, the free- 
dom of ignorance. Grace and goodness moulded her 
heart and frame, the grace of unconscious womanhood, 
the goodness of the fairy godmother. And loved by all 
in her kingdom was this Princess Beautiful. 

In the court was it known that a great betrothal was 
sealed in the childhood of the loved princess — a betrothal 
to a great prince. When the princess neared the age of 
twenty-one the glorious marriage was to be consummated 
and queendom was to sit on her fair brow. For the 
Princess Beautiful was still a child and the king and 
queen were long dead. 

Only once had the princess seen the prince. Years ago, 
as little children, they had caught a sunny glimpse of one 
another — only a glimpse. But years had passed, years 
of sunlight and shadow, and no prince came. Years had 
passed and the princess grew in pride. Why should she 
choose whom the realm preferred ? Why this one prince ? 

53 


54i THE PRINCESS AND THE CUP-BEARER 


Were there no others? By what right had her king 
father sealed her life away? Years added to the anger 
of the princess; she thought just anger. And none of 
this prince would she have unless love, too, came with 
him, and that was scarce likely. Indeed, she had no need 
of his love ! 

When the ancient cup-bearer died it was summertime 
around the palace. The scent of roses streamed from the 
garden. But the princess mourned her faithful servant. 
Pages were dispatched with the news to the surrounding 
villages ; the princess needed a new cup-bearer. And the 
sun bathed her fair face as she stood weeping on the 
palace terrace. No thought had she for the butterflies 
or the birds who fluttered near and loved in the sunshine. 
No sweet note of the summer wind as it harped among 
the trees touched her ear. It was the birth of sorrow to 
the princess, but a gentle beginning, and the heart of the 
girl softened in the faint gray light. 

In a day of sunniest splendor came the new cup-bearer, 
a day of violet clouds and stillness, a day of orchard 
bloom. The melody of bird! and shrilled everywhere. 
Roses breathed and whispered on the terrace. Sunlight 
and shadow danced together in the woodlands. And the 
princess smiled sadly as she watched the play of the 
fountains and listened to the merry splash of the water. 
Accustom herself she must to this new cup-bearer. But 
ah me ! how the princess mourned the ancient one, the 
faithful one of her palace home ! 

Many days had the new cup-bearer been at the palace. 
Humble was he, very humble, very thoughtful. But the 


THE PRINCESS AND THE CUP-BEARER 55 


old reserve of the princess came back; he was not the 
ancient cup-bearer. So the servant spent hard days, days 
of lowly service, days of gentle attention, days when the 
princess haughtily ignored him, days when she proudly 
commanded. The least fault brought a flash to her eyes, 
and if he so much as lifted his eyes to hers she flushed 
and was angry. And if, by accident, he touched her 
hand in serving she ordered him away. The softness of 
the princess hid in a citadel. The old cup-bearer was 
dead. An intruder was this new one, this youthful cup- 
bearer. 

Nothing asked the princess about this new cup-bearer. 
She did not care. He did his duties. Was not that 
enough ? But all in the palace soon learned to love the 
new cup-bearer. He was kind and he was true and as 
brave as he was handsome. But the princess passed on 
her way, mourning over the ashes of the dead, with the 
sunlight splashing over the palace, the terrace, the foun- 
tains and the roses, the red, red roses. 

In the garden of the princess grew one lovely rosebush ; 
roses they were as red as the dawn and sweet as the 
breathing dews of eventide. Every day the cup-bearer 
gathered a rose from the bush and laid it by the cup of 
the princess; and there it faded, unnoticed. And rose 
by rose laid he fresh and tender as the months glided into 
autumn, and the princess observed nothing. So they all 
faded and the cup-bearer sadly tore their leaves and 
threw them to the winds. For the princess heeded noth- 
ing but the ashes of the ancient. 

And winter came apace. .One sulky day the lonely 


56 THE PRINCESS AND THE CUP-BEARER 

princess wandered away on the snows, far away. Up a 
mountainside she clambered into the rarefied air. But a 
storm burst on the mountain peak. Great clouds of 
snow hurled their arms around the princess. Wild winds 
roared through gully and vale, white walls of snow clung 
to the cliffs. And soon the princess was lost in the mad 
whirl of wind and snow. 

Night closed in and all the palace was anxious. No 
princess came home. Lights flickered over the country- 
side and through the woods as watchers searched for the 
lost woman. No one thought of the mountain, no one 
but the cup-bearer. Silently, alone, he sped across the 
snows. Rapidly beat his heart as anxiety winged his 
heels. Reckless of his life, on and on he rushed through 
the wild storm, guided by an inward light brighter than 
the sun. Upward he struggled on the mountainside, 
careless of cliff and boulder ; upward he braved the hur- 
ricane of wind and hail, for the heart of the cup-bearer 
shone like a guiding star. 

Weary, and frightened, and weak, the lost princess lay 
beneath a fallen rock, timid of the storm’s power, lonely 
in the wail of the gale. Only a woman, after all ! 

Gently the cup-bearer raised the lifeless princess. 
Warmly he nestled her against his breast and firmly he 
trod down the mountainside. A cup-bearer, indeed, but 
the man of the palace I 

And days passed for the sick princess, sore, weary 
days. They were days of gray light for the cup-bearer. 

But again the sun darted among the roses and the ice 
of the fountains melted into bubbles, and once more the 


THE PRINCESS AND THE CUP-BEARER 57 


cup-bearer served his princess, but his hands trembled 
as he served. When duties were done he slipped away to 
his lonely room, and the princess wondered. 

No more were the red roses gathered from the garden. 
They faded, neglected on the bush. No more tender 
rose leaves sped upon the winds, messages, broken mes- 
sages from the cup-bearer’s heart. Day by day the prin- 
cess looked and longed for the roses. She dared not ask 
the cup-bearer. Dawn was breaking through the gray 
light of her mind. The roses smelled sweeter than they 
ever had. How warmly gleamed the sun ! How merrily 
danced the fountain! What enchantment lingered in 
the notes of the birds 1 How happily loved the butter- 
flies ! And what lyre was this that sang and thrilled in 
the woodland I The wind ? Ah me 1 How beautiful the 
world! So beautiful! And thus came love to the 
princess. 

But the child of sorrow grows to womanhood. One 
dark day the cup-bearer appeared no more. No gentle 
service, no quiet attentions greeted the princess. And 
violets mingled their fragrance with the red roses. And 
long nights the lone princess gazed dry eyed up to the 
stars. Would this inward pain never cease, this hunger 
never be satisfied? How cruelly the red roses breathed 
upon the night! They sickened her. How silent the 
great, dark sky ! Would it never, never speak and an- 
swer what she dared not ask? 

The day drew near for the marriage of the princess 
to be celebrated. Great and splendid preparations filled 
the palace with busy pages, grand dames and gay cour- 


58 THE PRINCESS AND THE CUP-BEARER 


tiers. The rustle of silk and velvet, the clink of spurred 
heels, laughter and minstrelsy echoed in the tapestried 
halls and out in the courtyard. Wreathes of flowers fes- 
tooned the palace walls and silken pennons flaunted with 
sprightly grace from every window. Red roses trailed 
from the ancient tapestries ; red roses drooped from the 
old portraits of kings and queens; red roses filled the 
great palace with their fragrance. 

The terrace hummed with converse and sang with 
music. The avenues thudded beneath horses’ hoofs, and 
the glint of satin and steel flashed in the park woods and 
in the rose gardens. But no one dared touch the lone 
bush of the red roses, so the princess had commanded. 
And no one guessed the truth. 

Far away rang out a bugle call. The prince was 
coming. 

To her tower hastened the princess. How beautiful 
she looked on her wedding day! Anxiously her eyes 
scanned the many avenues and cruelly she dug her pink 
nails into the palms of her hands. How bravely she 
lifted her proud head ! Alack I how the blue eyes filled 
with unshed tears! But her nostrils quivered proudly 
and the fire of battle burned in her eyes. It must be 
done. 

Splendidly rode the glittering array of soldiers, wind- 
ing along the avenues. What a clatter of spears ! What 
a fiame of steel gleaming in the sunshine ! How merrily 
they rode, as if to a festival indeed ! The horses shook 
their manes and lifted their hoofs in the proud conscious- 
ness of being. Ah me! How glorious and how sad! 



“ Xof to this mati gizr I )uy hand." 




^ f 

I 



THE PRINCESS AND THE CUP-BEARER 59 


And the breath of the red roses distilled in the air. The 
heart cry of the princess broke amid its sweetness. But 
no one knew and no one saw. 

On came the glittering, the dauntless array. Where 
rode this wonderful prince? Ah, there was he, in the 
lead! But a visor hid his face. ’Twas well. What 
pretty work lay before him on this, the wedding day of 
the princess! Let him hide his face. ’Twere soon 
enough seen before many hours crossed the red roses. 

Down from the tower came the princess and into the 
great throne room she glided like a swan on the surface 
of a serene sea. Darkly gloomed the wainscoting of the 
old oak walls, and darkly frowned the ancestral portraits 
of king and queen, and dully hung the ancient tapestries. 
But, joy of joys ! How sweet the red roses on her 
throne! How thickly the pages had embowered the 
gilded tyranny ! What cared she ! A red rose, large, full 
and beautiful, nestled in her bosom. 

Slowly the great hall doors were opened. Quickly the 
hall filled with knights and ladies. Softly quivered the 
music from unseen galleries, and there in the entrance 
stood the prince, visored, clad in silver armor, long 
white plumes flowing from his crest. And still the 
fragrance from the red roses weighed upon the at- 
mosphere. 

Steadily stood the princess on her golden throne 
among the roses. Pale as new blown snow was she; 
eyes afire with a wild light. In the silence of the assem- 
bled courtiers and dames she spoke: 

^‘Not to this man give I my hand. Not to any prince. 


60 THE PRINCESS AND THE CUP-BEARER 


however fair his realm, however great his treasure, how- 
ever powerful his armies. No ! My heart is given 
already. My life goes with it, and humble indeed is my 
choice ! Even would I give my throne for my love, even 
my golden crown! And my choice is the cup-bearer.” 

There was silence for the space of a few moments in 
the grand assembly. 

And then the princess clutched the red rose at her 
breast and stood aghast, trembling. For the prince had 
raised his visor as he stood amid his knights. 

Smiling to his beloved princess, he said softly yet so 
clearly that it could be heard to the uttermost corners 
of the great throne room like a silver chime breaking 
across a silent sea : 

^^The cup-bearer ! I am he and prince as well. And 
I shall serve you, my princess, so long as red roses last 1” 


NAOMI’S WEDDING BELLS 


The sun dawned gaily on Naomi’s wedding day. 
Springtime had filled the garden with flowers and the 
trees with songsters. Fleecy clouds drifted across the 
sky and vanished in the purple haze of the distant 
mountains. Over the fields and meadows paused the 
heavy odor of the new-mown hay, which lay piled in 
golden brown heaps. The orchards hid beneath a mist 
of pink and white blossoms, their fragrance distilling 
with the warmth of the sunshine. From the meadows 
clanged the cow-bells and sounded the stuttering wail 
of the sheep, and from the tall grasses and the leafy 
hedges chirruped the cricket. The soft southern note 
of the wind chanted through the woodland behind Miss 
Hetty Durand’s cottage and the little village drowsed 
in balmy ease. 

Naomi Durand was an orphan. Years ago her par- 
ents had passed from this life and had left her to the 
care of an only sister of Mr. Durand’s. So Naomi jour- 
neyed from her home in the Southern States to dwell in 
the little cottage, at the village of Mertonville, with her 
maiden aunt. 

Naomi was only nineteen years old and a pretty, 
61 


62 


NAOMI’S WEDDING BELLS 


golden-haired, blue-eyed girl. A merry-hearted girl was 
she, fond of dress, and admiration, and a good time. 
She was beloved by all the swains of the village. Naomi 
Durand was not given to brooding, or reading, or to 
thinking much about anything except fun. Indeed, her 
life had rippled through the village, bubbling and happy, 
like the stream beneath the village bridge. And no one 
ever associated tragedy with the cheery blue eyes and 
gaysome laugh of Naomi Durand. 

Mertonville was a picturesque village of the Western 
States. It was set in the cup of the foothills. On 
Naomi’s wedding day soft summer mists clung to the 
hilltops surrounding it, fading into the purple-gray of 
the far-away Eocky Mountains. A violet haze lingered 
in the meadows beyond its straggling, vine-clad cottages. 
The stream beneath the village bridge gurgled indolently 
on its way, winding through a ravine, and so losing itself 
among the hills and dales. Passing through the village 
was a main road, on which was situated Miss Hetty 
Durand’s cottage. The road passed among the cottages 
and out again, as if Mertonville were too unimportant 
for even a pause at the humble village inn. On this 
sweet day the foliage of tree and hush gleamed at its 
greenest and the air breathed fresh and fragrant. The 
hum of tiny insects and the clucking of fowls blended 
their monotonous sounds with the hypnotic spell of a 
warm summer day in an American village. 

The villagers were quiet folk. As Miss Durand was 
not well off, from a money standpoint, the service would 
be a simple one in the cottage. Only a few friends had 


NAOMI’S WEDDING BELLS 


63 


been invited to witness the ceremony. There was no 
bustle nor excitement about the preparations. Miss 
Durand arranged everything in a gentle way all her own. 
Except for the unusual floral display in the cottage, no 
stranger would have guessed how important a day it 
was for her. 

Miss Hetty Durand was a tender-hearted woman. 
Flowers betrayed more of her sentiment and feeling than 
any number of fine phrases or golden coins. In the 
midst of her old-fashioned garden, among the ferns, 
vines and blossoms, this quaint maiden lady was as 
sweet as any flower in her old lace cap and purple silk 
gown on Naomi’s wedding day. 

Everything was in readiness at three o’clock. The 
guests were beginning to arrive and the youngsters of 
the village had collected outside the fence to watch pro- 
ceedings. 

Aleck McDonald had a long road to travel to wed his 
bride. He lived in a village among the mountains, and 
a ride of many miles lay between the cottage of Miss 
Hetty Durand and his dwelling. ’Twas a dangerous 
road he had to ride. The trails had cut rough and rutty 
with recent rains and great torrents had burst from the 
mountains. Many villages and low-lying lands were 
flooded in the spring freshets. Avalanches had started 
from the mountainsides, loosened by the rains, and 
wildly rushed down the slopes. There were tragic tales 
of riders who had crossed the mountains in early spring, 
for sudden storms had swept the peaks. Lives had been 


64 


NAOMI’S WEDDING BELLS 


broken beneath landslips or borne to eternity on tlie 
turbid, swirling waters of the mountain streams. 

The sun fell softly into the little parlor of the cottage. 
A light wind fluttered the muslin curtains, like a spirit 
from a happier world, and stirred the vines which draped 
the walls. Almost overpowering was the distilled sweet- 
ness of the flowers, suggestive of sadness as well as of 
gladness. 

Miss Hetty Durand, with a smile half sorrowful, was 
arranging a bouquet of pinks and violets in a dainty 
vase when the maid of honor, Isabel Veyne, entered the 
room. 

^^ell, dear, how is Naomi now ?” softly inquired Miss 
Hetty Durand. 

^^Naomi is all right,” answered Isabel quietly, ^‘but 
she cannot stand the ringing of the doorbell. She sug- 
gests leaving the door open, as it is such a warm day. 
The guests can enter without formality, as they know 
us all so well.” 

Miss Durand scrutinized Isabel’s face in surprise and 
then inquired, ‘^What bell?” 

^^The doorbell, I suppose. I haven’t noticed any bells 
ringing, but Naomi seems to hear them,” remarked 
Isabel. 

^Toor child ! I expect she is a bit nervous naturally.” 

^Tndeed!” exclaimed Isabel quickly, ‘^she looks as 
cool and calm as your violets.” 

“Well, dear, you can tell Naomi that the door has 
been open for at least an hour and the bell has not rung 
once to-day.” 


NAOMI’S WEDDING BELLS 65 

thought it hadn’t,” returned Isabel. “But Naomi 
seemed disturbed about it, so I came to tell you.” 

Miss Hetty looked up mildly from her flowers. 

“’Tis very odd,” said she. 

“Very. However, I guess I might feel the same way 
on my wedding day,” returned Isabel, laughing. 

“Perchance you might,” smiled Miss Hetty. 

“Are you coming up to see her before the ceremony ?” 
asked Isabel, changing the subject. 

“Yes, dear. When my friend, Mrs. Paule, comes, I 
shall leave her to look after my guests while I pay a visit 
upstairs to Naomi.” 

So Isabel returned to the little bride. 

But after Isabel had left the room Miss Hetty added 
to herself : “Strange ! There are no bells in this neigh- 
borhood that she could possibly hear. Unless the village 
youngsters are playing tricks. I shall just watch. I 
don’t approve of practical jokes, least of all on a wed- 
ding day. Children should be dealt with severely for 
making an occasion ridiculous that should at least be 
dignified as well as happy.” 

Miss Hetty Durand stood behind the parlor curtains 
to watch the youngsters. The children were running 
about and laughing, but nothing unwonted occurred. 

It was some time after three o’clock when Miss Hetty 
left her friend, Mrs. Paule, in charge of her guests and 
went upstairs to pay a visit to the bride. 

Naomi, in her simple bridal dress, was lovelier on her 
wedding day than she had ever been. Her large blue 
eyes were happy and yet wistful, her fair skin tinged 


66 


NAOMI’S WEDDING BELLS 


with a warm pink from suppressed excitement, her 
mouth trembling between a laugh and tears. As the 
sunshine fell into the little room it broke into a halo of 
glory around Naomi’s golden hair. 

Naomi wlo seated near the window overlooking the 
garden an ^oabel was standing by it, watching the gate, 
for the bridegroom was expected at any moment. 

'^Aleck has not come yet, auntie,” said Naomi, glanc- 
ing up from her reverie as Miss Durand entered the 
room. 

^^No, dearie, but he may come any minute now.” 

Miss Hetty drew up a chair beside Naomi and seated 
herself. 

^Hsabel gave me your message, auntie.” 

‘‘Well, dear, have the bells stopped ringing?” asked 
Miss Hetty, smiling. 

Naomi shuddered a little before she answered hesitat- 
ingly, “Not altogether. I think you must be mistaken 
or perhaps you are growing deaf.” 

And Naomi wound her arms around Miss Durand’s 
neck. 

“I guess Naomi is dreaming,” laughed Isabel. “Love 
seems to affect most people in that way. Lovers would 
dream their lives away if envious mortals did not inter- 
fere. Here am I, for instance, very envious.” 

Naomi forced a smile. “I guess Isabel is growing 
deaf, too. I might set up an institution for deaf people 
and take you two as free patients. When I cure you I 
shall send in a big bill, like the quacks. Please pay it.” 

“Indeed !” cried Isabel saucily. “I think Miss Durand 


NAOMI’S WEDDING BELLS 


67 


and I shall organize a circus and exhibit you as a marvel 
of hearing, having ears to hear things unheard by the 
common, everyday ear-drum.” 

Miss Hetty glanced from one girl to the other, half 
doubting their seriousness about the bells. 

^‘1 suppose you are playing a joke on me. You want 
to frighten me with something weird. This is your last 
fling at your old auntie, I suppose, to cheer her up at 
parting with her girlie.” And Miss Durand kissed the 
bride affectionately. 

Ht is Naomi’s joke then, not mine,” said Isabel 
gravely. 

Naomi glanced out of the window before she replied, 
for her lips were trembling a little. 

^‘Well, friends, whether you accept it as a joke or not, 
the fact remains the same. Since before three o’clock I 
have heard bells ringing; such strange, strange bells !” 

Miss Hetty took the little bride’s face in her hands 
and looked tenderly into the big blue eyes, which gazed 
back at her with a pathetic sort of happiness. 

H never thought you a queer girl, Naomi. Indeed, 
you have always been a very practical little woman in 
most things, dress and fun excepted. You look as sen- 
sible and as pretty as ever, perhaps more so to-day, this 
being your wedding day. But your talk is uncanny, as 
Aleck McDonald would say.” 

‘‘Aleck may not have a chance to say at all, if he does 
not hurry up.” Naomi still stared out of the window, 
but she tilted her head saucily. “Look at the time! 
Nearly half-past three, and not here yet ! A woman may 


68 NAOMI’S WEDDING BELLS 

be permitted to be rather vain on her wedding day and 
rather late. Aleck must be fixing up fine, and a man 
should never be vain at any time. ’Tis his place to ad- 
mire woman for her prettiness ; to love her for her vani- 
ties; to seek her for her own sweet self, whether others 
agree or disagree, and then to marry her on time. Five 
minutes more and Aleck’s chance is gone forever and 
ever !” 

^‘Then I fear Aleck is doomed!” sighed Miss Hetty 
with a smile. 

‘‘Do give him five minutes’ grace!” Isabel pleaded 
mischievously. 

“Five minutes’ grace, you ask?” murmured Naomi 
softly. “I shall give him eternity !” 

“And if he comes late and wastes your time in this 
way after you are married?” inquired Isabel, bent on 
teasing. 

Naomi was silent a moment. 

“I shall not always be so extravagant with my time as 
I am to-day,” she said slowly. “Perchance I may never 
have to wait for Aleck again.” 

“Aleck, beware! Take heed to your ways and walk 
with care. Amen !” laughed Isabel. 

“Do you see any one coming?” asked Naomi, changing 
the subject rather nervously. 

Isabel lifted the window higher and gazed up the 
road. 

“No one yet !” 

Miss Durand arose. 

“Well, dears, I must go down to my guests.” 


NAOMI’S WEDDING BELLS 


69 


darling !” she whispered as she kissed the bride. 
‘^Once upon a time my mischievous, merry baby, then a 
romantic, romping girl and now my little woman, alto- 
gether lovely and lovable.” 

Drawing an old lace handkerchief from a capacious 
pocket. Miss Hetty Durand wiped her eyes and went 
downstairs, sighing to herself: 

^‘What will I do without my little Naomi?” 

But fate was to be kinder to Miss Durand in her lone- 
liness than to poor little Naomi, the bride. 

^'And what about the bells, Naomi ?” inquired Isabel, 
the merriment leaving her face as Miss Durand left the 
room. 

^‘They are ringing still. Such strange, strange bells !” 

‘‘Kinging still !” gasped Isabel with a shiver. 

“Yes, dear.” 

“And why didn’t you tell your auntie just now about 
them ?” 

“I kept up for Aunt Hetty’s sake. I did not wish to 
worry her.” 

“Brave girl!” murmured Isabel, taking the bride’s 
cold hand in hers. 

“Say nothing more to her, Isabel.” 

“Not a word, dear.” 

“I don’t understand why they ring and ring. It 
makes me think of the bell in the church tower when 
it tolls for the ” 

“Hush!” interrupted her companion. “Don’t speak 
of such things, dearie.” 


70 


NAOMI’S WEDDING BELLS 


‘'But it is true. They are ringing, ringing! Such 
strange, strange bells !” 

Isabel did not answer, but slipped her arm around the 
bride tenderly, and so they sat in silence for some time. 
They listened to the happy hum of voices downstairs 
and watched the leaves and the flowers as the wind 
gently tossed them with a soft, whispering sound, as if 
breathing to them the message of the strange, strange 
bells. 

“No one yet!” sighed Naomi. 

Isabel leaned out of the window. 

“There is some one coming, riding down the road.” 

“Aleck !” gasped Naomi, trembling. 

“Biding so fast !” continued Isabel, not noticing 
Naomi’s cry. 

“Aleck !” again broke from Naomi’s white lips. 

“Yes! yes!” exclaimed Isabel excitedly. “Aleck at 
last !” 

“Aleck!” cried Naomi, trembling violently. “And 
where is his friend, Bob Nelles?” 

“Why, the rider is alone !” burst from Isabel in amaze- 
ment. 

“Alone !” Naomi clasped her hands tightly. 

“He looks as if he were riding for his life ! He rides 
so fast !” continued Isabel excitedly. 

“So fast !” murmured Naomi mechanically. 

“Dear me ! what has happened ? He has no hat on ! 
His clothes hang like lead, as if soaked with water! 
Gracious ! It is Bob Nelles ! I wonder where Aleck ” 


NAOMI’S WEDDING BELLS 71 

Isabel stopped short, horror struck, and glanced quickly 
at Naomi. 

Naomi had seen. Naomi knew. 

Like a lily drooping for want of water, so Naomi 
leaned against the wall near the window, her lips parted, 
her eyes staring with fear, for life seemed to be slipping, 
slipping from her grasp. 

A specter had risen before her with the bells — the 
strange, strange bells — and it was Aleck ! 

Aleck ! Aleck !” she moaned. ^Wou are dead — dead I 
Sh ! I hear the bells ringing, ringing, ringing !” 

‘^Come, Naomi !” whispered Isabel, leading the bride 
to the bed, gently seating her on it and holding her cold 
hands in her own. 

^'I hear the bells ringing, ringing — louder, louder 
than ever ! Oh, Aleck ! Aleck !” moaned the bride, shiv- 
ering. ‘‘I understand now. All afternoon I felt the 
tragedy. I kept up for Aunt Hetty’s sake, Aleck. I 
joked to chase the feeling away. You are dead, Aleck ! 
You died when the strange, strange bells first began to 
ring. Oh, Aleck, dearest ! You are gone — gone ! Never 
shall we meet again in this world! Never, Aleck — 
never !” 

Naomi pressed her hands together and wrung them 
cruelly. 

“Listen ! Listen, Isabel ! Do you hear ? Kinging — 
ringing — ringing I” 

Naomi, in her bridal array, remained seated on the 
bed. The orange blossoms lay in her laps and she 
fingered the leaves tenderly. She had removed the 


72 


NAOMI’S WEDDING BELLS 


wreath from her hair. She sat there staring, staring at 
nothing, hearing nothing, knowing nothing. If she 
heard, it was only the ringing, ringing of the bells ! If 
she knew anything, it was that Aleck had passed for all 
time out of her existence. If she saw, it was the face of 
the specter, of Aleck, cold and lifeless — dead ! 

Presentiment had become fear and fear was soon to 
be reality, for Aleck was dead ! 

Miss Hetty Durand opened the door softly, her face 
white as Naomi’s. 

'‘My poor darling! God help you!” she whispered 
tenderly, lovingly. 

But Naomi heard not. Naomi had fainted. 

The strange, strange bells ! 

The toll of death ! 


THE ENCHANTER 

The enchanter stood by the sea, a great sapphire sea, 
a sea of glowing, vital movement. The sun beat upon it, 
but could not absorb nor penetrate its depths. The rains 
poured into it, but the sea rippled no deeper. Tempests 
pitched its waters shivering upon the beach. But the 
sea heaved the same, as full, as deep, as impenetrable 
and as omnipotent. No one fell into this sapphire sea 
and came back the same. ^Twas a marvelous sea ! 

The enchanter stood by the sea at dawn. He stretched 
out his golden rod over its foam-flecked waters, and as 
the zephyrs played upon its glistening surface a low 
murmur of music drifted from the far horizon. Wave 
and wave of melody vibrated over the sapphire sea, in- 
creasing in volume and sound till the air was full of 
music and all the sapphire sea thrilled in harmony. 

The enchanter murmured the words of the wonderful 
spell. And then from out of the sapphire sea arose a 
brave and lusty youth like the famed Excalibur, ‘The 
sword that rose from out the bosom of the lake.’^ Clad 
was he in a shining red armor, with a flowing white 
plume in his helmet. Across liis shoulders and fastened 
beneath his chin with a golden clasp drooped a robe of 
73 


74 


THE ENCHANTER 


ermine, and in his hand he held a golden sword, and 
set in its haft was a blood-red ruby. 

Lightly he trod upon the sapphire sea. Joyously he 
sang as he nipped the sea foam with his golden sword, 
and merrily the zephys tossed his flaxen curls and kissed 
his innocent cheeks, and laughingly he looked upon the 
sky, the land and the sea. For life, pure and sweet, 
danced in his veins. 

The enchanter murmured the words of the wonderful 
spell, words that breathed of the dawn and the dew, 
softly coming and softly going ; words afresh with every 
day; white words that leave the world the sweeter for 
their music; sounds that come in dreams and visions; 
melodies that die away with the sunset. For the en- 
chanter’s mystic words bestowed the gift of love, love 
that makes the winter flower-sweet and sunny as the 
the summertime; love that breaks through every cloud 
and unrolls a space of blue on the darkest of tempest- 
tossed days. ’Twas a wondrous enchantment that fell 
upon the brave and lusty youth ! 

And then the enchanter vanished — vanished as the 
parent bird leaves its young when wings grow strong 
and instinct guides their flight. 

But on the beach appeared a maiden, a maiden dark 
as night, with eyes like the azure of heaven and a brow 
like snowflakes. Dressed in snowiest robes was she, 
‘Vhite samite, mystic, wonderful.” In her hand, glint- 
ing in the sunlight, she clasped a golden sword, rich 
with pearls and rubies. And 


THE ENCHANTER 


75 


^^All the haft twinkled with diamond sparks. 
Myriads of topaz lights, and jacinth- work 
Of subtlest jewelry/^ 

Laying her sword upon the youth’s shoulder, she 
knighted him Sir Love. 

Sir Love set out on a journey, long and difficult. But 
his heart was held in the hand of Hope and Faith gazed 
out upon the world from his clear and innocent eyes. 

Far, far had Sir Love traveled, traveled in lands 
where the sun shines forever. But he grew accustomed 
to the sunlight and wearied of its warmth, its peace. 
He slept by the sapphire sea and its waves laved love 
songs to his slumbering ears. But he tired of the music 
and of the sea. He roved in many a moss-spattered 
wold and dreamed by sparkling brooks. In a bed of 
violets he nested his head and listened to the lyre of the 
wind. He dallied in meadows, and chanted to the 
feathered throng, and again he returned to the sapphire 
sea. ’Twas all too beautiful, all too sweet ! Sir Love got 
used to its peace and wearied, and instinct guided his 
flight. 

Sir Love arose at dawn each day and turned his foot- 
steps from the sapphire sea. One darkly clouded day he 
came to a \Vide, smoothly flowing river. On the other 
shore gleamed a wonderful palace. Its windows flamed 
into the gray of the day. Thick forests surrounded it, 
forests somber even in the sunshine, and the low, hungry 
roar of wild beasts echoed among the trees and the rocks 
of the riverside. The knight looked long and hungrily. 


76 


THE ENCHANTER 


Nothing daunted. Sir Love threw himself into the river. 
^Twas icy cold! But Sir Love had dared, and he 
would do. 

And soon he had reached the other shore. Cour- 
ageously he cut his way through the thickets, cut it with 
his golden sword. Sturdily did he defend himself from 
the wild beasts, but their blood spattered the blood-red 
ruby, and cheerfully did he gain the palace. But no one 
welcomed him, no one prevented him. 

Through long corridors Sir Love betook his way. 
Gorgeous tapestries, unwritten poems in color and de- 
sign, covered the walls and rare rugs of wondrous weave 
and myriad hues softened his tread. Everywhere was 
luxury, gold, and silver, and bronze. The stairs were 
of varied marbles, quarried from all the world, each 
step a solid block. The tables were of jasper, and mala- 
chite, and lapislazuli, supported on golden legs. The 
chairs were carved in fine old woods and inlaid with 
mother-of-pearl, and cabinets of teak wood and ebony, 
mosaiced and crested with tortoise-shell and precious 
stones, held the wondrous treasures of the palace. The 
odor of incense, mystic breath of the Orient, hung in 
sleepy ^apors on the atmosphere. It permeated every- 
where, fragrant of spices and sandal wood. Sir Love 
felt stupefied. Through suite after suite of magnificent 
rooms, glaring in their richness, enervating in their 
comforts, passed the straying knight. 

The palace contained no chapel. 

In the banqueting hall was spread a festive board — 
viands set for gods. There sparkled gold things, and 


THE ENCHANTER 


77 


silver things, and fine glass, and in their midst a wealth 
of red poppies. Like a burning fire they flamed in the 
center of the table. There breathed spices from the 
garden of the dark-eyed Peri, fruit from the clime of 
the peach and orange blossom, wines from the vineyards 
of the world of secret distilling, a sumptuous feast of 
Ambrosia and Nectar. And a throne of ivory, of satin 
and velvet stood empty. 

The knight hesitated — ^his eyes on the banquet, the 
incense heavy upon him. ^Twas a wondrous rich palace ! 

But withal a lonesome palace. No friend called from 
the corridors; no sweet-eyed houri beckoned to the 
feast; no fair n3^mph invited to the throne. Yea, Sir 
Love hesitated, troubled by a dim, distant thought of 
the sapphire sea. And then he fled ! 

Cast down by this vain experience. Sir Love set out 
again. Bravely he wrestled with the subtle poison that 
had exhaled in the Palace of Luxury. It darkened his 
hope and his faith. The wild beasts had torn his tender 
flesh and the briers of the thicket had brought blood. 

For many days Sir Love wandered on, restlessly, 
heedlessly, and then a shining castle glittered from a 
mountain peak. Steep precipices arose before him, 
somber cliffs split into dangerous ravines. The path 
upward was rugged and perilous. Cruelly the sun beat 
upon the bare, treeless mountain. 

Spurred by a fresh hope, a freshened faith, the knight 
struggled through the twilight and the peril of the 
ravines. He breasted the cliffs and stumbled fearlessly 
up the precipitous path, and carelessly he suffered the 


78 


THE ENCHANTER 


searing of the sun. The castle gained, once more he 
entered, unwelcomed, unprevented. 

Everywhere the knight turned was a revelation of 
thought in art. There were wonderful, beautiful statues. 
Some were just begun, roughly hewn blocks of marble — 
the birth of fine thought, the embryo of exalted emotion. 
They were ideas nobly conceived, but unfinished, unex- 
pressed. And there were some perfected, statues of fine 
feeling and splendid action, of repose and uplifting 
thought, silently expressing the highest and the best; 
statues breathing of realized dreams. Wonderful statues, 
indeed ! 

Marvelous paintings hung upon the walls and frescoed 
the ceilings. Like the statues, some were just in out- 
line and others completed, fully developed ideas. Land- 
scapes there were, soft and sunny, of mead and wold, or 
dark with storm and peril; landscapes of all light and 
shadow, of all celestial beauty and all terrestrial fer- 
vency. There were scenes from all life and all dream- 
land. Frescoes and paintings were alike beautiful and 
inspiring. 

Heavenly symphonies drifted in ecstasies of sound 
from unseen galleries. Voices of divine sweetness 
thrilled through the castle, and lyre and harp, viol and 
flute each vibrated a part of a dream — a dream of 
melody and bird notes. Myriad harmonies winged on 
the strings of music. As snowflakes floating through 
the air, as bubbles bursting in a brook, as stars beaming 
one by one, so every note wafted from the unseen worlds 


THE ENCHANTER 79 

and swelled the chorus of music and sound. ’Twas a 
wondrous, melodious castle ! 

The mystery of the spirit world dwelt in the castle of 
art — the mystery of dreams. 

Sir Love gazed around him as if spellbound. It was 
a strange castle. The walls were bare, except for the 
paintings; the floors were uncovered but for the pedes- 
tals on which the statues stood. The atmosphere was 
fresh, but only the sweetness of the music permeated it. 
Mystic meanings lay hidden in all he saw — the mystery 
of work and design, of patience and perseverance — and 
the meaning was effort and pain. 

No smiling sylph made him stay. ’Twas lonely — 
lonely as the Palace of Luxury ! 

The knight wavered. He wavered long and uncer- 
tainly. But night drew on and weariness came with the 
darkness. With a lingering, backward gaze, the knight 
slowly descended the mountain. 

A dream had entered the blood of the knight — a 
dream of noble ambition. The dream and the poison 
battled together, the indolent, sluggish poison of the 
Palace of Luxury, and Sir Love lagged in his journey- 
ings. And in a fantasy he saw the sparkling waters of 
the sapphire sea. 

Crestfallen with the results of his travels, the knight 
proceeded through a cycle of chilly, misty days, days 
of gloom and uncertainty. 

And on a crimson morning arose a fair mosque, a 
mosque all ivory, flushing in the sunrise. Rare crystals 
gleamed from the cupola like sparks of fire ; rare crystals 


80 


THE ENCHANTER 


glistened on the walls like tongues of flame. Fountains 
chanted ceaselessly in arbors of evergreen. Laurels 
waved forever by singing streams. A pure, sweet air 
abounded. 

Olive branches met over the path that led to the 
mystic mosque, but the path was paved with jagged 
rocks and bespattered with heart’s blood. Daringly Sir 
Love traversed the rough way; his feet bled and ached. 
But the mosque was magnificent. It burned in the sun, 
an eternal blaze of light. 

No hand beckoned to the knight, no voice bade him 
enter. No one awaited him. 

Inside the mosque the smell of ancient vellum per- 
vaded every corner. Rolls of old parchment lay in piles 
upon the floor, covered with weird signs and symbols. 
Aged papyrus from far lands, scratched with hiero- 
glyphics and stained with various colors, moulded in 
rusty heaps. There were shelves on the walls which mar- 
shalled rows and rows of books, hundreds, thousands of 
books ; books of all ages and no two volumes alike. 

A soft violet glow streamed through stained windows, 
quiet and peaceful. Weird and wonderful presences, not 
seen but felt, moved in this world of study and struggle, 
of failure, of glory and despair. 

Nothing adorned the walls of the Mosque of Litera- 
ture, nothing but books, marvelous books. Their con- 
tents had been melted in the crucible of the mind and 
transmuted into rare, and beautiful, and powerful 
thoughts. There were thoughts which streamed in melo- 
dious language — the grand music of the epic, the flute- 


THE ENCHANTER 


81 


like note of the sonnet, the love harmony of the lyric, 
the glorious symphony of all poetry. It was the mystic 
Mosque of Literature, of Poetry. It was a burning fire 
of eternal thought. 

Sir Love sat for long, enchanted hours. The spell of 
the mosque was upon him, but he was battling with the 
poison and the dream. The poison conquered. Palace, 
castle, mosque, they stood alone. No kind eyes looked 
sympathy into his. And there was struggle, and pain, 
and failure in all three. And the knight sorely retraced 
his steps from the ivory mosque. 

Heroically Sir Love started on a pilgrimage. Faith 
and Hope were growing weary. A doubt lingered in- 
dolently in the knight’s thoughts. The thing called self 
had haunted him on his travels. In the Palace of Lux- 
ury it had absorbed the poisoned, sweet-distilling incense. 
And yet withal the dream floated in a serene air. Dimly 
glowed the vision of the sapphire sea. And the knight 
stumbled on. Footsore, he endured his desolate way. 

One evening, as the sun drifted downward to sunset. 
Sir Love beheld a temple. It was a temple of precious 
stones and lilies, all roseate in the setting sun. Columns 
of sapphires, so blue as the sapphire sea, supported the 
jasper roof, columns carved with cupids and twining 
with blossoms and leaves. The walls were of lustrous 
pink topaz and set in their niches reposed statues of 
snowiest marble, statues of the muses. In front of this 
transparent temple, on a pedestal of emerald, the goddess 
Venus, with arms outheld, gazed a wondrous, unfathom- 
able welcome to all wayfarers. Lilies resplendent sur- 


82 


THE ENCHANTER 


rounded the temple, lilies so pure as starlight. Sir Love 
was lost in awe of its splendor. 

The path to the Temple of Love was an easy one, but 
difficult to find. The knight caught a glimpse of it as 
the rays of the setting sun christened its well-worn 
way. A cross of pearls stood on a mound, amid thistles 
and briers, pointing out the path. In the center of the 
pearls gleamed the fire of a blood-red ruby. 

The Temple of Love was set in a boundless park. 
Lawns of velvety green spread away beneath grand old 
trees of oak and pine. In mossy hollows glanced patches 
of purple pansies and azure forget-me-nots. Marble 
terraces overlooked purling brooks — brooks bubbling on 
to the sapphire sea and the sea of eternity. Roses and 
violets wove garlands around their balustrades like hues 
of dawn among the purple clouds. Arbors of wistaria 
and eglantine wistfully invited the pilgrim to rest. All 
flowers blossomed forever in the gardens of the Temple 
of Love. 

The woodlands were brilliant with the golden mimosa, 
the pink azalea, the purple lilac and all their sisters of 
the blossoming world. Fountains flashed in the sun- 
shine, scattering their opalescent drops into crystal 
basins or tossing them into the cups of flowers and 
among the tall grasses, where they laughed back to the 
sun. Narcissus, iris and daffodils nodded by foaming 
falls. Lakelets shadowed the trees and the sky, a mosaic 
of blue and green, weaving a variable lacework of flut- 
tering leaves as the wind swept the water into ripples. 

The songs of birds and the music of the winds stole 


THE ENCHANTER 


83 


among the sylvan shades. They wafted melodies in at 
the temple doors. In the groves were heard the lucid 
notes of harp, and lyre, and lute. Symphonies strayed 
through the woodlands like nymphs of sound. And all 
this sacred spot was music, beauty and happiness. 

Sir Love lay long and indolently in the groves, lazily 
breathing the fragrance of the flowers. Everywhere 
thrilled a wonderful life. Surely this dream would end 
in peace. Disappointment had dogged his footsteps. 
Faith had dozed and Hope had fallen asleep in the 
Palace of Luxury and the poison had sapped his strength. 
For many days he had almost forgotten the sapphire 
sea, the dark maiden and the enchanter who had given 
him life. But slowly memory revived it all in these 
sylvan scenes. He would visit the temple and then 
return to the sapphire sea. 

When rest had restored the wearied knight, the in- 
dolent Sir Love, he arose and sadly sought the Temple 
of Love. 

In the temple stood a shrine. It was a shrine of pure 
white marble, with a name, a sweet name, a mystic name, 
inlaid in gold. On it rested a perfect heart of pearls, 
in the midst of which faintly glowed a blood-red ruby. 
Ivy twined around the altar. The air was fragrant with 
lilies, and narcissus, and hyacinths. Sunlight forever 
shone through the stained windows. It shed the varied 
hues of the colored glass on pillar, fresco and mosaic, for 
the walls were frescoed with dreams and floor mosaiced 
in strange symbols and visions. And the Temple of 


84 


THE ENCHANTER 


Love became sweeter and fresher with the flowers as the 
years wended on to eternity. 

There by the shrine stood the maiden, dark as night, 
with eyes like the azure of heaven and a brow like snow- 
flakes. There was she in snowiest robes with her golden 
sword. 

And there she demanded of Sir Love : 

^^hat hast thou done with thy knighthood — ^thy gift 
— and what dost thou here?” 

‘T am weary,” sighed the knight. 'T sought luxury 
and fame, but suffering, and despair, and loneliness 
greeted me in great palaces, and in wonderful castles, 
and in splendid mosques. I am weary now. I would 
love.” 

The maiden bent her eyes, blue and mystic, upon the 
shrine, upon the heart of pearls, upon the blood-red ruby. 

‘Too late ! too late !” she sighed. 

“Too late!” wildly cried the knight. “Where is my 
enchanter? Why called he to me — and out of the 
sapphire sea ?” 

The enchanter appeared and he made answer : 

“I called thee from the sapphire sea to live. Thou 
didst choose death.” 

“But love — love! What of love?” demanded the 
knight, trembling, angered. 

And the enchanter made answer again : 

“Too late! I would I had left thee nothing — a soul- 
less bubble ! Thou hast learned too late — too late !” 


THE THISTLE: A PARABLE 


In Scotland, by the wayside, far over the mountains 
and in the ravines, thrives the thistle. ^Tis an odd 
plant! ^Tis wondrous prickly! It draws the blood to 
one’s finger tips. It has a mode of spiking that is not 
always cheering, but it is sincere. Maybe it is inspiring, 
indeed very inspiring at times. One says things one 
should not say when one happens nonchalantly on a 
thistle. 

But the thistle has a beautiful, even noble head. It 
is proud in a garden of roses, bold on the moorlands, 
lonely on the mountain peak. In a picture it is harm- 
less, among the bracken it is dignified, on the defensive, 
picturesque. In the fields one would rather not shoon- 
less step upon it. At all times the heart of the thistle 
colors warmly and the sap of life runs in its veins. 

But the odd thing or character of the thistle is this ; 
It so often shelters a bluebell beneath its great, prickly, 
green leaves. Who would suspect a thistle of hiding so 
fine a poetic soul as a bluebell, gentle star of the earth ? 
And yet underneath the thistle leaves gather rosy clumps 
of heath, the friendly, dark-eyed pansy-violet and tiny 
hedgerows of heather. Even the rare white heather will 
85 


86 


THE THISTLE 


nestle beneath the thistle. '’Tis well to possess the micro- 
scopic eye, especially in Scotland ! 

Perchance a day comes when the thistle must defend 
itself out in the great world, even tear its heart to prove 
its truth to the world. Who knows? God made the 
rose with its thorn, the violet to lift its shy head unseen, 
but none the less beautiful. Gently He fashioned the 
lovely head of the carnation and then fastened it ten- 
derly to its ugly stalk. Nobly did He lift the water-lily 
from its bed of mud and the hyacinth from its dark 
couch. Even by the wayside, neglected, trampled on, the 
narcissus breathes its sweetness ’neath southern skies. 
Wild in the fields grows the passionate, warm-hearted 
poppy, its head crushed to feed opium to mankind. 
Wilder still the marguerites, a white sea to be shortly 
cut down by the man with the scythe; and, despised of 
all, the simple buttercup. Yea, God made them all, 
and God made the thistle ! 

Touch me if you dare! 

The thistle will die, yes, but die nobly as it has lived. 
Touch me if you dare, for I have a heart ! God is wit- 
ness. And not a thistle is broken from its stalk, ruth- 
lessly, heedlessly, heartlessly, but God knows. 

^‘Vengeance is mine!” A little while and the world 
will see the thistle breaking. A little while and the 
world will say: 

“How strange ! That thistle hid a beautiful bluebell. 
Not an ordinary one — no! How cheerfully it endured 
through frosts and hurricanes ! How bravely it held its 
head even as the stalk bent and broke! As storm after 


THE THISTLE ST 

storm blew around it and crushed its leaves, how cour- 
ageously it lifted them and spread them to the sun ! 

But the sun smiles little in Scotland and the clouds 
are sodden and sulky. And the thistle grew alone, ten- 
derly guarding the simple things, the pure things. And 
God saw. 

And then a day came when the heart of the thistle 
broke. And God gathered the honeyed sweetness of the 
thistle back to Himself, for He loved the thistle. De- 
spite its thorns, God knew its life. Then he blended its 
honey with the beauty of His own spirit and scattered 
it to the four winds, a seed human but divine. Some 
of the seeds died, but a few, very few, which supped of 
the sun and the dew, grew up, straight but thorny, 
ragged and sweet, sturdily sheltering any timid flower 
within their shade. And God saw it was good. 

Silently He blessed the life of the lonely thistle. For 
if the world knew not and doubted, God knew the thistle 
of the broken heart. 

“Oui! c’est un reve! 

Oui ! c’est un reve doux d’amour ! 

La nuit lui prete son mystere; 

II doit finir — 

II doit finir avec le jour.” 


THE KNIGHT AND THE DREAM 

Once upon a time there was a bold knight, an infidel 
knight. His parents were dead, his friends were dead, 
and no home had he an3^where, and no one cared. 

Far afield traveled he, seeking the joy of living, the 
fulness of the earth. Great mountains rose before him, 
and this sturdy knight bent his back, and laughed as he 
nipped their pinnacles with his sword. Great plains 
stretched hungrily to the horizon, and bravely the knight 
plodded across their thirsty loneliness. Dull forests 
opened their jaws and the knight shouted his songs into 
their dusk and danger. Silent rivers rolled their sound- 
less deeps to tempt the knight to the siren’s grave, but 
he scorned, and swam their waves, and stretched his 
arms on the farther shore. For the knight was young, 
care free and indifferent. 

Then a day came in a still, sweet vale, a day of sun- 
shine and dew. The breath of flowers fled through the 
sylvan glades, the shadows fluttered on moss and mere. 
The grace of swaying mead and the musical thrill of 
darting streams soothed the heart of the bold knight. 
Birds chirruped in the groves and hedges. Rushing 
zephyrs, like nymphs at play, tossed the trees and shook 
88 


THE KNIGHT AND THE DREAM 89 


their leaves merrily. And the knight ceased his course 
in a fern-clad dell and the dream came. 

On a rock of the dell stood the maid of the knight — 
God^s maid for him. Sweet as the breath of twilight, 
pure as the dawn, steadfast as the moss-strewn rock on 
which she stood there thrilled into being the knight’s 
dream, the dream of his world life, the sleeping thought 
of each day, the silver star of his slumbers. It was the 
knight’s dream of love. 

And then for many days the maid and the knight 
dreamed together — dreamed on the hillside, dreamed by 
the wayside, dreamed by the music of waters, dreamed 
among flowers, dreamed in sunlight and shadow. Fan- 
cies and fairies frisked in the still, sweet vale. Angels 
whispered across the meadows and their wings caressed 
the grasses and the leaves and reeds trembled in the 
ripples of running brooks. And the knight and the maid 
dreamed their dreams together in pure and perfect hap- 
piness. 

Then came another day, and the knight awoke. A 
cloud had darkened between the dream and himself and 
the dream had vanished. The day was dark with storms, 
sullen with angry flashes, shouting with the voice of 
thunder. Moaning winds screamed through the vale. 
Hurricanes bent the trees and laid low every flower. 
The waves of the mere frothed in fury. Fearsomely the 
birds flew away with the fairies and the fancies. The 
reeds fell weeping into the streams and the angels hid 
their faces, for doubt, and distrust, and selfishness had 
marred the dream. 


90 THE KNIGHT AND THE DREAM 


Wild-e 3 ^ed the knight fled. Whither, whither had gone 
the dream — his dream of love and happiness? So late, 
and he had drunk of its sweetness; so late, and he had 
whispered its name a thousand times to his heart; so 
late, and its eternity had held his soul ! Maddened, the 
knight sped away to the cities and the great world. 

Deeply he drank of the golden cup of pleasure. Wisely 
he studied the world’s jewels; smilingly he played with 
the golden things and tossed the jewels for his moment, 
and bitterly and sadly he gazed at the stars when night 
led him to his lone tower, and the world saw not. For 
the dream was not here. 

Still another day, and the knight came again to the 
mountain, the forest, the plains and the rivers. But 
they had all changed. The pinnacles reached higher 
into heaven, almost insurmountable, and the knight 
laughed no more. The forests, tangled and dark, barred 
the knight’s progress and the song died on his lips. 
The rivers chilled him and he gazed at the farther shore, 
his arms listless by his side, and turned away. He 
crossed the plains, but the knight’s heart was faint 
with hunger and thirst, and the plain offered none but 
bitter waters and herbs. And a burden of sorrow 
weighed him down hopelessly, wearily, for the dream 
seemed no more. 

And one more day ! Hopelessly the knight turned his 
steps to the dell of his dream, the moss-strewn rock of 
his romance. Doubting deeply, he sought the still, sweet 
vale. Again its flowers breathed a welcome; again its 
shade offered rest to his wearied limbs; again sounded 


THE KNIGHT AND THE DREAM 91 


the music of stream and fall ; again his tired eyes 
drooped softl}'”, tearfully as they beheld the moss, the 
mere, the meadows, all joyous and peaceful. Trem- 
blingly and slowly he approached the dream dell. 

The knight stood a silent, lone man, lost in his dream 
memories, hesitating, fearing, returning a step and then 
onward again as the steadfastness of faith and the smile 
of hope beckoned him on. On and on stepped the tired, 
lonely knight, each step a thought, each breath a hope 
or fear. For the heart of the knight longed for his 
dream of love again, the dream God gave to him alone, 
the sweet, innocent dream of long ago — his lost world of 
happiness ! 

And there the dell, and there the rock with its moss- 
strewn surface, and the silence! 

Had he come too late? 

Suddenly, with his heart full of angry defiance and 
unbelief, the knight gripped his sword and cried aloud : 

‘T will not believe! There is no dream for me, no 
God for me ! Oh, God, if there be a God, I defy Thee 
here and now. Show me Thy might; prove me Thy 
truth; reveal Thyself, Thou whom the world doubts; 
Thou whom the priests boast; Thou who hast stolen 
my dream away ! I defy Thee here and now to mortal 
combat ! Come, let us end it all, for you and me !’^ 

Tenderly a glow of light fell on the mossy rock. Its 
radiance spread like the sunshine on the sea. Purely a 
form arose above the rock, set in the midst of the glory. 
Sweetly a smile met the knight’s eager eyes and a gentle 
hand stretched out to aid the trembling hope, the shrink- 


92 THE KNIGHT AND THE DREAM 


ing faith. As her hand touched the hand of the knight 
his whole being thrilled with the reality of his dream — 
God’s dream for him. 

And then a voice, not of the dream, but a voice drift- 
ing from the sun and the dew, the flowers and the stars, 
breathed across the dream dell : 

^‘God is love 1” 


THE RENUNCIATION OF 
FRA SIMONETTA 


Fra Simonetta ! The very name suggested sanctity, 
holiness, a wonderful life of self-renunciation. And 
self-renunciation it was, had the world but known. But 
the world never suspected the pathos of human nature 
which lay hidden behind the act. So often a fine piece 
of statuary is lightly passed without thought of the 
pain or care it cost the sculptor. So the tragedies of life 
are acted out, secreting the truth beneath smiles and 
silence, surroundings and change. 

Fra Simonetta possessed Celtic and Italian blood in 
his veins, and this colored his olive cheeks, his soft chest- 
nut hair and his large, dark, expressive eyes. And this, 
too, accounted for his sudden bursts of passion and 
strange silences. In him flowed all the artistic instincts 
and the love of beauty of the Italian, combined with a 
dour determination and stern self-control altogether 
Scotch. From his mother he inherited an hauteur which 
proclaimed his Florentine ancestor of noble birth and 
high position. His father came of a race born to win 
and conquer. 

Perched on a mountainside, overlooking Loch Tay, 


94 RENUNCIATION OF FRA SIMONETTA 


stood the Castle Mohr. Far beneath it lay the lake like 
a moonstone in its bower of emerald and amethyst 
mountains, shimmering beneath skies grim and clouded, 
with occasional glimpses of blue sky. Sometimes wild 
storms swept over the loch, leaving it a seething mass of 
white caps and flying foam. And it lay a mirror, lightly 
quivering with every breath which descended from the 
mountain heights. 

On every side the pinnacles looked proudly down into 
the bosom of the lake, giants miraging their eternal 
pride in its ripples. Ben Lawers, stern and grand, rose 
high above the others and still loftier Ben Mohr lifted 
its haughty peak into the clouds. Sometimes when the 
flower season luxuriated on the levels below, the moun- 
tain giants still retained their snowy helmets, sparkling 
in the sunshine like the mail of long dead chieftains. 
Myriad mists trailed around the peaks and drifted far 
into the vales, blending their softness with the massed 
patches of purple heather, and the purple heather was 
varied by the thick copsewood creeping down to the 
water’s edge, and the spaces of pastureland, and the 
sylvan grades. Stealing up the mountainside, the 
ravines crowded their thickets among the boulders and 
cliffs and then vanished in the hundred windings and 
breaks of the mountains, and great gray precipices and 
jutting rocks and barren marshland contrasted in their 
dull desolation with the bright, luxuriant green of the 
woods and the rich amethyst heather of the mountains. 

Here on the mountainsides the highland cattle roamed 
and strayed through the pastures for food, the wild 


RENUNCIATION OF FRA SIMONETTA 95 


grouse sought safety amid the heath and bracken, and 
in the glens were heard the free melodies of bird and 
burn, harmonizing the music of tumbling waters and 
trilling songsters with the lash of the waves below and 
the sough of the wind in the trees. 

Far down the loch toward the village of Kenmore a 
green islet nestled on the bosom of the water. Among 
its trees still crumbled away the ruins of an ancient 
priory of the twelfth century, lending a touch of romance 
to the scene. 

Of a dreamy nature, Simon Mohr developed in natural 
surroundings which only intensified his passionate, 
poetic nature. His father, the elder Simon Mohr, was 
the wealthy laird of Castle Mohr, a fulsome, high- 
colored man, given to sudden outbursts of temper, so 
surly as Scotch skies, outbursts that vanished in months 
of silent reserve, a nature not unknown in Scotland. 
Lady Mohr, who had grown up under softer summer 
skies, was emotional, self-willed and fastidious and de- 
voted to the Roman Catholic faith. So the little Simon 
Mohr grew up in a varied mental atmosphere, sometimes 
whirled off his feet by his mothers religious emotional- 
ism, sometimes terrified by his father’s fierce outbreaks 
of temper. 

One rare, bright day the sun danced over the ivied 
turrets and battlements of Castle Mohr, casting freakish 
shadows into the courtyard below. It stole into the 
avenue of limes, falling in rays through the branches 
as it glanced through the stained windows of cathedrals. 
On the mausoleum, where lay generations of the lairds 


96 RENUNCIATION OF FRA SIMONETTA 


of Castle Mohr, it melted away in softened beams and 
it poured over the half-dozing Simon as he rested his 
long limbs on a bank of heather up on the mountainside, 
drinking in the beauties of the scenery and quoting to 
himself the fine descriptive lines which Burns wrote 
over the chimney in the parlor of the inn of Kenmore : 

‘‘Here Poesy might wake her heaven-taught lyre. 

And look through nature with creative fire ; 

Here to the wrongs of fate half reconciled ” 

How ardently he hoped that he might some day write 
lines as fine! 

But his happy meditations came to an abrupt end as 
a shower of rowan berries fiew about his ears and a voice 
imitated after him in mocking tones : 

“Here to the wrongs of fate half reconciled. 
Misfortune’s steps might wander wild; 

And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds. 

Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds ; 
Here heart-struck Grief ” 

And then the sweet, but mock solemn voice broke into 
a loud, silvery laugh and the voice exclaimed saucily : 

“How lugubrious !” 

Simon Mohr did not look around, but he knew that a 
pair of nut-brown eyes, crowned by a mass of shining 
auburn hair, were peeping at him from behind a cairn, 
which was not far away, and which also was sheltered by 


RENUNCIATION OF FRA SIMONETTA 97 


a rowan tree only too familiar to himself and to the nut- 
brown eyes. Simon did not answer, so the voice pro- 
ceeded : 

^‘Here heart-struck Grief might heavenward stretch her 
scan. 

And injured Worth 

^Tlease don’t, Birksie!” Simon interrupted, a sensi- 
tive, half-pained expression coming into his eyes, which 
quickly passed into one of sternness. Then he did 
glance around and met the pair of eyes looking merrily 
and quizzically at him from over the cairn. 

"‘And injured Worth forget and pardon!’ That is 
yourself, Simon, I suppose, quoting poetry on the top 
of a mountain with no one to appreciate you or it!” 
And Birksie laughed again. 

Simon was silent. 

"You lazy, indolent creature !” exclaimed she, coming 
out from behind the cairn and sitting down on the stump 
of a larch tree. "What are you doing, wasting these 
precious hours, snoring on a mountain top ?” 

"I’m not snoring,” replied Simon, keeping strictly to 
facts and looking serious. 

"Perchance not, lazybones! But you are certainly 
wasting time quoting poetry to the clouds or to the 
grouse, or perhaps you were quoting to those great lions 
over there,” and Birksie pointed mischievously to the 
long-maned Highland cows which were browsing in a 
pasture below. 


98 RENUNCIATION OF FRA SIMONETTA 


not wasting time indignantly protested Simon, 
not overpleased with Birksie’s mode of teasing. 

^‘Yes, you are insisted the girl. 

^‘No, I’m not !” answered he, very determined. 

^^YouareP 

^T’m not !” 

Dead silence. Simon pouted and looked resentful, 
while Birksie brimmed over with fun and innocence. 

^^Well, what were you doing, anyway?” she persisted, 
teasingly. 

‘‘Thinking !” abruptly. 

“About what ?” inquired Birksie. 

“You, of course !” sarcastically from Simon. 

“Why me ‘of course’ ?” from Birksie, imitating him. 

“Because that’s what you wanted me to say.” And 
Simon dug his heel into the heather. 

“No, I didn’t!” protested Birksie. 

“Yes, you did.” 

Silence again. 

“You are not very sweet-tempered, Simon.” 

Silence again. 

Simon Mohr hated that kind of teasing. 

“Oh, well, I don’t care !” exclaimed the offended girl, 
tossing her head. “I guess Ormelie McAlpin will be 
more pleasant than you are to-day.” 

And she made as if she were going to trip away down 
the mountainside. 

Simon assumed a smile, but a thunder cloud gathered 
inwardly. 


RENUNCIATION OF FRA SIMONETTA 99 


‘^All right! Give Ormelie my love/’ said he with 
affected indifference. 

‘T won’t I” snapped Birksie haughtily. 

^‘Then don’t!” laughed Simon. 

Silence again. 

^^Now, who’s in a temper?” quizzed Simon. 

‘Tt is your fault/’ said Birksie, feeling much hurt. 

Simon shook his head and said nothing. 

was only teasing you,” continued Birksie in an in- 
jured tone. 

^^Queer kind of teasing, I should think,” suggested 
Simon a trifle sarcastically. 

‘^Oh, you don’t understand it !” declared the offended 
girl. 

^^No!” from Simon with a laugh. 

Simon did understand it to a certain degree, but he 
was not going to give in now. 

‘‘Nor do you understand me!” indignantly from 
Birksie. 

^Tnjured innocence !” put in Simon. 

^^Well, that is less conceited than injured Worth’!” 
returned she quickly. 

Simon’s eyes flashed, but they softened a little as they 
fell on the cairn underneath the rowan tree, which he 
and Birksie had piled together in declaration of eternal 
friendship, a sort of Biblical Mizpah. 

^‘You are not very complimentary, Birksie,” he said 
gently. 

don’t care !” from the girl. 


100 RENUNCIATION OF FRA SIMONETTA 

“Think before you speak, little girl !” Simon suggested 
quietly. 

^^Thank you !” said Birksie haughtily. “But I^m not 
asking for advice.” 

“All right,” returned Simon, thinking clouded 
thoughts of Ormelie McAlpin. 

“I am going now,” declared Birksie firmly. 

“To Ormelie?” inquired Simon, unable to resist a 
covert effort at scorn. 

But Birksie was hurt this time in a woman’s unreason- 
able way, and she walked away, bristling with pride like 
an offended princess. And Simon gazed after her, his 
heart in his eyes ; if Birksie could only have seen. But 
it was too late ! 

How he loved that little auburn-haired girl ! 

It was partly her fault and partly his, like all youth- 
ful lovers’ quarrels. They were passionate, proud chil- 
dren these two. 

And that was how Ormelie McAlpin first began to 
play a part in Birksie’s life. 

Love is a sensitive thing and in its early expression is 
easily offended. Simon still lay on the bank of heather, 
stern and self-contained, but albeit with a heavy heart. 
He watched the little figure disappear in the glens below 
as Birksie hurried away in the direction of the village of 
Killin. And as the trees closed behind her and hid the 
girl from his view he murmured to himself with an odd 
feeling of presentiment: 


RENUNCIATION OF FRA SIMONETTA 101 


''Here to the wrongs of fate half reconciled. 
Misfortune’s lightened steps might wander wild ; 

And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds. 

Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds ; 

Here heart-struck Grief might heavenward stretch her 
scan. 

And injured Worth forget and pardon ” 

Simon Mohr hesitated and then he added slowly but 
firmly: "Woman!” 

But this time no Birksie heard him. 

Birksie loved Simon with all her heart and soul. But 
Simon was an odd boy. There were days when he was 
the essence of silence and so cold. Birksie’s naturally 
exuberant, loving nature shrank from these tragic 
silences. They wounded her, she knew not why, and try 
as she would to pull Simon out of these deep, fathomless 
seas of silence, it was well nigh impossible at times. 

Birksie had not yet learned that Simon Mohr was a 
poet and needed a poet’s license of silence and quiet, and 
Simon had yet to learn that Birksie was a great actress 
in embryo and needed emotional excitement. So practi- 
cal Ormelie McAlpin, with his mediocre mind and his 
inability to comprehend anything finely sensitive or 
poetic beyond his father’s huge wine business, acted as 
go-between with these two undeveloped, gifted children. 

As she wandered through the glens homeward toward 
Killin, Birksie’s thoughts were sad and lonely ones, sad 
indeed, but so proud as they were sad. Birksie inherited 
all the sensitive pride of a noble Scotch family, and 


102 RENUNCIATION OF FRA SIMONETTA 


when her pride was hurt she was almost as unyielding 
as Simon Mohr himself, unyielding to the point of sacri- 
ficing her happiness. Even the dual music of the rivers 
Lochay and Dochart, as they merrily rushed through the 
glens and over the mossy rocks on their various ways to 
the Loch Tay, could not make her forget the melancholy 
dirge in her own heart. Even the inspiring beauty of 
lofty peak and wooded crag, and the vast green slopes, 
and the peace of the far-off crofter’s cottage with its 
lichen-clad walls and its blue-gray smoke curling among 
sycamore trees, even this sweet peace of all nature could 
not lessen the war with love in Birksie’s soul. 

So the afternoon closed on the mountainside and over 
the glens in a heavily clouded sky, the precursor of a 
stormy, dark night, and the sun hid away from Birksie 
and Simon among the mists and the crags. 

Seven years later, when Simon had begun to win his 
laurels in the great world of London, Birksie met him 
at the salon of a great lady. 

Simon Mohr’s poetry had created a deep impression in 
literary circles and he was the lion of the hour, the 
same curiously silent Simon, with his sudden flashes of 
humor. The world’s gracious reception of himself and 
his poems had carried Simon off his feet for a while 
and he was suffering from a painful tendency to conceit 
as a consequence. 

It was a magnificent room where they met. The walls 
were empanneled with cherry satin and mirrors. The 
ceiling gleamed a mass of gilt stucco work, surrounding 
wonderful frescoes of Cupids and Psyches. The air 


RENUNCIATION OF FRA SIMONETTA 103 


drowsed with the fragrance of carnations and lilies. Gay 
throngs kept passing in and out, and in the distance 
above the merry hum of human voices could be heard 
the strains of music and the sounding measures of the 
dance. 

To-night Simon was in one of his proud, silent, unre- 
sponsive moods. Of course, Birksie was as radiantly 
gay, bubbling over with fun and mischief and the joy of 
life, a happy, innocent girl. 

When Simon Mohr entered the room Birksie was 
standing near the door in a filmy gown of palest yellow, 
a bunch of rowan berries nestling at her bosom and a 
few peeping among the restless curls of her dark au- 
burn hair. Birksie was watching for the poet, had he but 
known ! And she gave him a glowing smile, bright 
enough to have encouraged any ordinary man. But 
Simon was made of a different mold from the average 
and acted accordingly. He returned Birksie’s smile with 
a cold bow. After a little chat with his hostess, he 
drifted across the room to an alcove filled with palms 
and softened lights, where he stood silently gazing out 
over Hyde Park. 

Pray, what was Birksie to do ? 

Birksie watched him a moment, and then divining his 
mood, started to flirt irrepressibly with Ormelie Mc- 
Alphin, who was also a guest of the evening. The latter, 
not averse to such excitement with so beautiful a woman, 
with her soft, nut-brown eyes, responded freely and a 
trifle carelessly. Birksie, haughty and mischievous, was 
bent on annoying the poet. As for Ormelie McAlpin, he 


104 RENUNCIATION OF FRA SIMONETTA 


was thoroughly indifferent as to her reason for flirting; 
but as thoroughly enamored of her beauty. 

Simon’s eyes wandered among the trees of the park, 
watching the sleepy flicker of the many lights. Then 
they sought the thoroughfare below, where busses and 
hansoms clattered past and motors flashed by. A few 
pedestrians appeared and vanished into the darkness of 
night, like rats seeking their holes, some glancing up at 
the lighted windows of the stone mansion and stopping 
to listen to the music and the dancing, curious or en- 
vious. Simon’s thoughts were in the Highlands, up on 
the mountainside by the cairn he and Birksie had piled 
together in the sweet days of long ago. Again he saw 
the rowan tree, massed with blood-red berries, and felt 
the heather beneath his feet. Again he heard the melody 
of burn and bird and smelt the distilled fragrance of the 
heath, the bracken and the firs. Again the wondrous 
wooded scene lay before him : 

^Th’ outstretching lake, embosomed ’mong the hills.” 

And then Birksie’s mocking laugh broke upon his 
ears and the voice of Ormelie McAlpin. 

A stern expression came into Simon’s gray-blue eyes, 
and he repeated under his breath in a whispered tone of 
passionate feeling: 

^'Here to the wrongs of fate half reconciled. 
Misfortune’s lightened steps might wander wild ; 
And Disappointment ” 


RENUNCIATION OF FRA SIMONETTA 105 


He broke off abruptly, angrily, the color mounting 
hotly to his face, his hands clenched hard, and, turning 
on his heel, he sought the ballroom and Birksie. 

Though his soul was full of passionate rebellion, out- 
wardly he was the same evenly poised, self-contained 
Simon Mohr. 

Birksie had danced several times with Ormelie Mc- 
Alpin and had promised herself for supper with him 
when Simon came quietly, silently to her and asked for 
a dance. 

^^Certainly ! How many ?” she asked, thrilling at his 
very presence. 

^^Oh, a couple,” said Simon Mohr coolly. 

Even yet Simon Mohr would have slain himself with 
his own jeweled dirk before he would have given in to 
Birksie or let her know how passionately he loved her. 
He would have hidden his jealousy under his claymore 
rather than she should ever know the regret her loss 
might mean to him. 

Birksie’s eyes flashed with sudden fire at his cold an- 
swer. She had kept several for him, but quickly con- 
sulting her program, she replied, restraining herself 
bravely, for she felt inclined to cry with disappointment : 
am so sorry, Simon, but I only have one left.” 

^'Only one?” he inquired gravely. 

^‘Only one,” she responded, biting her lip on the little 
fib. 

“And how many have you given to Ormelie?” with a 
forced smile asked Simon. 


106 RENUNCIATION OF FRA SIMONETTA 


^^As many as h-e asked for came Birksie’s quick 
reply, challenging him with her saucy nut-brown eyes. 

^^Your program otherwise?” interrupted Simon with 
an inscrutable Scotch smile. 

Birksie maintained a haughty silence. 

^'You seem very fond of Ormelie McAlpin,” Simon 
suggested, curling his lip a little. 

^^And what if I am?” exclaimed Birksie, tossing her 
head saucily. 

^^All right,” Simon answered with assumed indiffer- 
ence. 

“Well, and why should you care?” laughed Birksie, a 
heartache behind the question. 

“I don’t care !” he returned. And Simon Molir could 
use that phrase in a way that would have frozen the 
heart of a statue, much less such a sensitive one as 
Birksie’s. 

“Oh, is that so ?” commented Birksie rather painfully. 

Silence again, hut Simon knew that he had hurt her. 
He had a deliberate way of doing such things, a contrast 
to Birksie’s sudden, warm, sometimes erratic, impulses. 

“What makes you so interested in Ormelie McAlpin ?” 
she asked presently with apparent lightness. 

“A brotherly interest, Birksie.” 

“Really ! How kind of you, Simon !” with a sudden 
lifting of her eyebrows. 

Silence again, the poet keeping a sphinx-like poise, 
balanced and cool, the woman quivering from a fresh 
wound which she bravely hid. 


RENUNCIATION OF FRA SIMONETTA 107 


^‘You are an awful little flirt, Birksie said he sud- 
denly. 

^Trom your point of view, I suppose I am.’^ And she 
fanned herself to keep down her rising resentment. 

'^Every one says that you are,’’ remarked Simon Mohr, 
glancing at her beauty with cold eyes. 

^^And, of course, you believe every one! The major- 
ity have always been right since the world began,” said 
Birksie with a touch of sarcasm, adding quietly, “If I 
have ever been a flirt, it has been unconsciously. I don’t 
talk love to men. If they like me, it is because I talk 
sense to them, and most girls talk nonsense. But, of 
course, if the world says that I am a flirt, the world 
must be right. Is that why you call me fascinating?” 

“You certainly are fascinating, little girl, but you use 
your fascination oddly at times.” 

“Not to your liking?” queried Birksie with a smile. 
“And pray what is wrong?” 

“Ask Ormelie. He is your best critic,” remarked 
Simon coldly. 

“I will !” exclaimed Birksie, her eyes sparkling 
strangely. 

Simon Mohr and Birksie were not exactly betrothed, 
but it was understood that they were meant for one 
another and would some day marry. The laird of Castle 
Mohr treated it as a settled matter, likewise Birksie’s 
relations. But one never knows what a sensitive, emo- 
tional girl will do or a silent, passionate man will act on 
a given occasion. 

Birksie and Simon Mohr thoroughly loved one an- 


108 RENUNCIATION OF FRA SIMONETTA 


other and as thoroughly misunderstood each other, which 
sometimes does happen between different temperaments 
in this complex life. The silence and coldness of Simon 
Mohr were just as painful to Birksie as her exuberance 
and enthusiasm were annoying to Simon. And both 
were Scotchly proud. 

^^So you think that Ormelie McAlpin is my best 
critic?” queried Birksie with a disdainful flash of her 
nut-brown eyes. 

^^And why not ?” rejoined Simon in his matter-of-fact 
way. 

‘‘Why not, indeed !” laughed Birksie. “He has known 
me long enough.” 

Simon shrugged his broad shoulders. 

“AlFs well that ends well,” said he. 

“Thanks !” curtly from Birksie. 

Silence again. 

Birksie tapped her fan on her cheek and turned her 
head away to hide the tears which would come unbidden 
to her eyes, while Simon stole a glance at the lovely 
woman beside him and for the first time noticed the 
rowan berries in her auburn hair and trembling at her 
bosom. 

“I don’t think you understand me, little girl,” he said 
gently, his thoughts flying back to the rowan tree by the 
cairn and the day they quarreled there. 

“Nor you me I” flashed Birksie defiantly. 

“Well, if you understood me, that ” began Simon. 

“That would facilitate matters for you,” interrupted 
Birksie. “Yes, certainly! And how about me?” 


RENUNCIATION OF FRA SIMONETTA 109 

Simon Mohr laughed in spite of himself. 

^^Men never understand women, and, least of all, their 
women friends,” he answered humorously. “It is not 
necessary.” 

“That may be a rule,” returned Birksie, biting her lip 
painfully, “but there are exceptions.” 

“Meaning yourself ?” politely sarcastic from Simon. 

Birksie ignored his remark, and spying Ormelie 
McAlpin across the room, exclaimed with affected ex- 
uberance : 

“There is Ormelie ! Looking for me, I suppose.” 

“And welcome, too !” flashed Simon Mohr so sud- 
denly that Birksie was astonished. 

“Thank you,” she returned icily, and turning away to 
welcome Ormelie with a gay smile, she added, her nut- 
brown eyes on Are, “You will live to regret your rude- 
ness, Simon !” 

To which threat Simon, whose self-control had re- 
turned as quickly as his anger had burst out, merely 
lifted his shoulders and departed. But there was a dark 
storm in his heart despite his seeming calm. 

And that was how Ormelie McAlpin and Birksie even- 
tually became engaged and married, one result of which 
change in her life was that Simon Mohr left Scotland for 
some years and no one heard of him or saw him during 
that time. 

Five years passed. Birksie was learning the sad lesson 
of the rebound of one’s actions. She was not married 
long before the full and bitter truth of life without love 
broke in upon her roughly, cruelly. It is true, indeed. 


110 RENUNCIATION OF FRA SIMONETTA 


that Ormelie loved her beauty well, but he cared not a 
whit for her otherwise. He was satiated with his wealth 
and the luxurious pleasures it gave him. Love had no 
place in his life. 

Poor Birksie ! 

No little child came into her life to soften the lonely 
hours of suffering. Even the cold, silent poet had 
seemed to care more for her than Ormelie. Did Simon 
care ? She often wondered. So Birksie proudly isolated 
herself from the world around her and no one read the 
heart of the woman aright. 

No, Simon never cared, she was certain of that. He 
had long since gone away to Italy, and doubtless his life 
was 30 full of the pleasures he loved, poetry and 
scenery, that he had completely forgotten his little 
Scotch friend of long ago. 

And Simon Mohr?* 

With his mother’s strong religious vein, he had joined 
a brotherhood in Italy and signed the vows of celibacy 
a year after Birksie’s wedding. His passionate, poetic 
nature had found a certain vent in the ascetic life of the 
Monastery of Santo Spirito and in the lovely scenery 
which environed it. 

Santo Spirito, with its background of stately, somber 
pines, was built on the edge of a declivity. Below it 
sloped away the terraces of olive trees and beyond their 
soft gray-green spread the grape vines and the flower- 
sweet meadows. Pilgrims sought the monastery for the 
sake of the sacred waters, which gushed in refreshing 
rills from a rock hidden among cypress trees. The water 


RENUNCIATION OF FRA SIMONETTA 111 


tumbled in silvery clearness over the ledge and into a 
marble basin, where pilgrims drank of it freely. 

Simon Mohr had sought a spot which would remind 
him in some way of his highland home. From the 
Monastery of Santo Spirito he could see the summits of 
the Carrara Range, sometimes softened with clouds and 
ever changing with the skies. No lake spread its mirage 
of woods and heights in the valley like 

^‘Th^ outstretching lake, embosomed ’mong the hills.” 

But the River Arno wound its way into the distance and 
vanished, a ribbon of silvery light, into the violet mists. 

All through the warm months the air was fragrant 
of flowers; flowers by the wayside among the tangled 
vines; flowers starring the meadows in reckless luxuri- 
ance; flowers clouding the orchards, wreathing them in 
pink and white. 

Here Simon Mohr suffered — that is, suffered at times. 
Strong, silent natures like his have a fine power of 
throwing off their sorrows and burying them in forget- 
fulness for a while. When such natures break out it is 
a barrier which has held back the sea. For the time 
being the overthrow of their bulwarks is like the flood- 
ing of the land. 

Fra Simonetta could lose himself in the beauty of his 
environment or in the ecstasy of his creative power, but 
sometimes at eventide would come the old longing for 
Birksie when the monastery bells rang out, thrilling 
through the darkening cloisters, and chiming far into the 


112 RENUNCIATION OF FRA SIMONETTA 


Val d’Arno, and over the hillsides, echoing and re-echo- 
ing, and dying in a melodious sigh. The voices of the 
vesper bells ! They seemed to be a cry from his soul to 
Birksie’s, the awakening to the dream he had lost. Fra 
Simonetta sorrowed in the twilight for the dawn which 
had passed forever from him. 

The next news which reached Fra Simonetta was the 
death of Ormelie McAlpin and then the marvelous suc- 
cess of Birksie as an actress. 

Birksie, with resolution akin to Fra Simonetta’s, 
sought respite from her private sorrows by living 
through the Joys and sorrows of others on the stage. 
And the tragedy of her own lot gave her the splendid 
emotional power which was amazing the world of 
London. 

Birksie! Birksie, a wonderful actress! Fra Simo- 
netta could scarce believe it. 

The little girl, Birksie, whom he had known, with her 
coronal of auburn hair and her mischievous, nut-brown 
eyes! Birksie, with her ardent, enthusiastic tempera- 
ment ! Birksie, who chattered so, who teased him so in 
the sweet long ago ! 

Why, yes, he might have suspected it years ago. 
Yes, had he been less in love with himself, he might 
have known! 

Fra Simonetta begged leave of the fathers to go on a 
private mission to London. To London, what for? To 
witness Birksie at the zenith of her triumphs. 

And what a night of dreams and wonders he stole 
from his vows to witness his beloved Birksie ! 


RENUNCIATION OF FRA SIMONETTA 113 


Birksie ! Oh, God ! Never to speak to her again ! 
Never to know her ! Never to feel the wondrous thrill 
of her bright presence as in the long ago sunny days ! 
Never to tell her of his passionate devotion ! Never 

Silently Fra Simonetta stole out of the theater. He 
knew not the play. It was only Birksie, Birksie with 
her radiant auburn hair and great gazelle eyes appeal- 
ing to him from the stage, unknowing. Lonely, hungry 
Fra Simonetta ! 

The Italian blood, which he had inherited from his 
religious mother, fought against the Celtic, silent pas- 
sion. All the religion, false it may be, of his ancestors, 
battled against the woman, Birksie. And Fra Simonetta 
slipped away from London to the Monastery of Santo 
Spirito to fight for months with his passionate love for 
Birksie and conquer at last ! 

And Birksie? 

Birksie lived on, believing Simon Mohr a cold, selfish 
man, a man of supreme forgetfulness. 

Birksie never knew how bitter were the months Fra 
Simonetta lived through after his return from London 
to the Monastery of Santo Spirito. No, she never knew 
the dull, biting remorse that harrowed his days, remorse 
that comes too late! Alas! and she never knew of his 
passionate man-hunger for the woman of his heart ! But 
self — ^pride ! It was the old, old story. Alas ! 

So Birksie never knew of the renunciation of Fra 
Simonetta in the Monastery of Santo Spirito in the Val 
d’Arno, far off in the land of Italy. 


114 RENUNCIATION OF FRA SIMONETTA 


Years afterward, when the glorious auburn hair was 
turning to silver and the rowan berries still nestled 
among its tangled curls, Birksie received a tiny gold 
cross, delivered to her by a brother of the Monastery of 
Santo Spirito. On one side of it was the figure of the 
crucified Christ on the other was chased a word : 


^‘Birksie 


And an unfinished line of poetry : 

‘‘Here to the wrongs of fate half reconciled ** 


MIRABELLE 


It was to be a great night of grand opera in London. 
The famous tenor, Henri Dubois, was to sing. By one 
big jump had this unknown man leaped into fame. 

In a small village of France he had been born. Later 
on his family had emigrated to London and one day a 
passerby had heard le petit Henri singing at the pitch of 
his lungs from the top of a stone wall. A marvelously 
sweet voice had le petit Henri ! A voice of wonderful 
compass, and of ringing soul-inspiring sound. 

Then came the long days of careful study and de- 
voted work. And many sweet days of love and ambi- 
tion. And Henri was ready to make his debut. 

Henri and 'Mirabelle had grown up in the same al- 
ley. Henri with the soul and gift of expression ; Mira- 
belle with the soul alone, but not the expression. Mu- 
sic blended their natures in one. And Mirabelle lis- 
tened enraptured to Henri’s warbling. When the pass- 
erby started Henri at his studies, and supplied the nec- 
essary funds, Mirabelle daily urged him on with his 
work; encouraging, cheering, helping him. And the 
great night had come at last ! 

With what hopes and fears they had anticipated this 
115 


116 


MIRABELLE 


night. Indeed, Mirabelle trembled at the thought of 
its meaning to her and to Henri. And at times a 
strange dread came over her. They grew out of a 
merry childhood into a happy youth. Henri came 
down from his carolling on the stone wall, to study 
scales and the art of breathing. And Mirabelle left her 
skipping rope to learn how to dance. But these years 
of perseverance and patience had been full of the sun- 
shine of love. A great love that was to fulfill its dearest 
hopes with the success of this night. It seemed almost 
too wonderful a realization of human dreams. 

Mirabelle had dreaded it; but the great night had 
come at last! 

The theater was crowded. Hundreds of grand ladies 
in silks and diamonds occupied the boxes and orchestra 
chairs, with the easy coolness of the blase theatergoer. 
Hundreds of maidens with buttering hearts and blush- 
ing cheeks, eagerly anticipated the entrance of the 
handsome and youthful artist. And hundreds of men 
laughed and talked in the vestibule, awaiting the event 
of the evening. For the coming debut of Henri Du- 
bois had been bruited by the newspapers. And his 
wondrous gift and handsome personality had fled on the 
wings of gossip. 

Behind the curtains of a box Mirabelle shyly hid ; her 
dark eyes sparkling with wonder, delight and expect- 
ancy. Never before had she been in a theater; it was 
fairyland to her. Mirabelle had developed into a lovely 
woman; a woman of alluring witchery. Her beauty 
lay more in the charm and grace of her manner and 


MIRABELLE 


117 


expression, rather than the perfection of feature and 
of form. She, too, would make a debut soon; but as 
a dancer in vaudeville. The same loving Jdirabelle 
still; devoted to Henri; lost in Henri; forgetful of 
her own hopes of success in the midst of Henri’s com- 
ing fame. Yet Mirabelle trembled on the verge of 
his triumph. 

It was the beautiful opera of Lohengrin that dazzled 
the ej^es and fascinated the ears of the audience. And 
smoothly it passed on the stage. And gloriously Henri 
sang, thrilling his hearers with his melodious voice. 
Fully and richly it resounded in the theater. Its joy 
and its pathos echoed in Mirabelle’s heart. The people 
were wild with enthusiasm. Again and again Henri 
was called upon the stage and the uproar of clapping 
hands was like a roll of thunder. 

The last act was reached. Henri had excelled Mira- 
belle’s highest hopes. His blue eyes were ablaze with 
happiness; his cheeks were flushed with the triumph; 
his slender frame vibrated as his soul soared in song to 
other spheres. The last scene was being enacted. Lo- 
hengrin was in the midst of his last wondrous song, 
when suddenly his voice broke, and the fair young 
singer fell dead. The melodious voice had ceased 
forever. 

One wild cry burst from Mirabelle. She rushed from 
her box to the stage; something gripping her heart 
with an iron hand. The curtain came quickly down. 
And the audience, horror-struck, slowly left the theater. 

'^Henri! Henri, dearest!’’ moaned poor Mirabelle, 


118 MIRABELLE 

as she bent over the dead man, and tearlessly kissed 
his lips. 

Heart failure,” murmured a physician, who had 
hurried from the stalls. ^^Too slender a frame for so 
great a voice; too great a triumph for so gentle a 
heart. I never heard anything like his singing in my 
life.” And he laid the pulseless hand down. 

Quietly was the body of Henri Dubois removed. And 
two days later a great funeral left his humble home. 
Many famous artists and many of the audience who 
had witnessed his triumph followed, to pay a last trib- 
ute to so great a singer. 

Some 3 ^ears passed and Mirabelle danced in vaude- 
ville, danced her sorrow away, danced wildly, recklessly. 
But Mirabelle kept to herself. Devoted admirers fol- 
lowed her everywhere. Mirabelle, the beauty of Lon- 
don ! Mirabelle, the dancer of the age ! London was 
at her feet. She had danced the phantom into the past. 
Wealth and the world were hers to bid as she pleased, 
with the witchery of her graces and her' manners. And 
her dainty feet skipped beyond everyone. 

And then one night at a great ball Mirabelle met a 
great earl. He fell in love with her, as every man 
had who had met her. And days of courtship followed. 
Mirabelle hid from the memory of Henri Dubois; bur- 
ied it deep in her soul. And the earl progressed in his 
love. She fancied him ; but did not love him. Of her 
stage life she was wearied, and longed for rest. It was 
a lonely existence, and she wearied of her efforts and 
the world^s applause. She was worn out holding off 


MIRABELLE 


119 


the many admirers who besieged her. For Mirahelle 
had kept alone; aloof from all men. She never asked 
herself the reason why; she had done it instinctively 
ever since the night of Lohengrin. 

Tired and sick of it all, Mirahelle had decided to 
marry the earl, if he proposed. 

One night there was a grand ball in the Hotel Cecil, 
in the Victoria Hall. A blaze of lights fell over the 
frescoes and the gilding. A small forest of palms hid 
the orchestra on the dais. A splash of color filled the 
ballroom, as the numerous guests arrived. And in a 
large room, opening at one side, was heard the clink 
of glasses and china, as the waiters hurriedly made 
ready the supper tables. 

The dancing was at its height of activity when Mira- 
belle and the earl wandered away to a quiet corner, 
where they could be alone. They seated themselves 
among the palms, with the soft lights shining down 
upon them. Mirahelle was radiant in a gown of cerise 
satin; her great brown eyes flaming with subdued ex- 
citement ; her dark hair gleaming in the softened glow ; 
her heart beating high with the ecstatic joy of living. 
The earl sat beside her on the lounge, bewitched. 

"Mirahelle !” he murmured, taking one of her long 
white hands in his. 

"Well !” she smiled back at him. 

"I have waited long for this moment, dearest!^’ he 
said softly. 

"Why?^^ asked Mirahelle saucily. 

"You have kept me off by your own sweet will. And 


120 


MIRABELLE 


you know it, too he returned, lifting the beautiful 
hand to his lips. 

Mirabelle was silent, crushing a memory of Long 
Ago. 

“I love you, Mirabelle !” The earl leaned toward her, 
breathed upon her, and Mirabelle turned her head to 
him. Her eyes were burning, indeed, and her bosom 
heaving; but Mirabelle was battling with Fate. 

love you ! Mirabelle ! Dearest he whispered, 
catching her in his arms, and crushing his lips on hers. 
^‘Mirabelle! Mirabelle! I love you, love you!’^ 

And then stealing among the palms, gliding ghostlike 
among the softened lights, came sweet strains of music ; 
music full of Joy and triumph; music full of memory, 
of love, and pain. The orchestra was playing Lohengrin. 

And Mirabelle, flinging off the earl’s embrace, fled. 

She fled through the ballroom and away. Rapidly 
throwing on her long, dark cloak, and a scarf, she flew 
as if winged down the broad marble stairways and out 
of the Hotel Cecil. Madly she rushed along the streets, 
on and on, and on; careless of the passerby; reckless 
of comment; wildly struggling with the love of Long 
Ago. She recked not of consequences. Determinedly 
she sought London Bridge. On through the alleyways 
and dark, lonely streets she hurried. On and on ! The 
broad, black river seemed a heaven in her eyes; a 
heaven of peace and rest after all these years of pain 
and battle. And its waters would tell no tale. 

And then London Bridge at last! How quiet the 
Thames looked as it flowed in sleep beneath her ! How 


MIRABELLE 


121 


invitingly cool to the fever in her heart! One leap 
into its slumbering arms, and all would be over. And 
then rest ! Rest after all these sore, silent years. A 
few hubbies would come and go and mark where she 
had slipped into Eternity forever ! And Henri ! 

Henri! Henri, dearest! I love you still! Heart 
of mine, I love you so thrilled in a whispered cry 
from the woman’s aching heart. 

Mirabelle leaned over the parapet and gazed into 
the dull ripples. It was so quiet on the bridge. Only 
a rare passenger crossed at this lone hour. In the dark- 
ness lurked a few beings, desolate like herself. Miser- 
able creatures, as wretched and lonely as she! Mira- 
belle, the famous dancer, but unloved and unloving in 
the big world ! For the Dream of Long Ago denied her 
all things; all things of joy in life. God! Would it 
never end! 

Mirabelle slowly crossed, and recrossed the bridge. 
One groveling man, observing her beautiful clothes, 
begged a pittance, and she recklessly gave him a dia- 
mond ring. With a horrible chuckle, the man made off 
rapidly. A wild-eyed girl, whimpering and threadbare, 
begged sympathy, and Mirabelle drew the silken scarf 
from her neck and gave it to her. And the girl, with 
a burst of gratitude, hurried away into the night. 

And then a lonely, hungry cry broke on Mirabelle’s 
ears. And she quickly approached a dark corner of 
London Bridge. A pair of frightened blue eyes peered 
up at her ; little golden curls appealed timidly to Mira- 


122 


MIRABELLE 


belle. And a memory of Long Ago came back; a pair 
of blue eyes and a shower of flaxen curls, but Henri’s. 

Mirabelle stooped and gathered the deserted baby 
to her breast. 

^^Mine!” she murmured tenderly. "Mine!” 

And she kissed the little one softly and wrapped it in 
her cloak. Quickly she retraced her steps across Lon- 
don Bridge. Softly she called to a hansom. And sadly, 
but wistfully, she turned homeward to her grand apart- 
ments. She stole into her rooms, and laid the baby 
on her bed. And Mirabelle, the dancer of London, in 
her splendid cerise gown, undressed the baby, gave it 
a little supper and tucked it into her luxurious bed! 

And there all night she watched by the bedside. 
And there at dawn her French maid found her sound 
asleep, and the baby ! And the servants marveled. 

No more was Mirabelle heard of in vaudeville. No 
more was she heard of in London. And the earl never 
saw her again. Mysteriously she disappeared. And the 
world marveled at Mirabelle’s madness. 

But the villagers in a little hamlet far away mar- 
velled that so dark a mother had so fair a son. And 
they wondered at her devotion to "Le Petit Henri”; 
for so he was named in the village. 


THE KNELL OF NAT PAGAN 


Elspeth was right, and it was a foreboding. But 
had it not come true, Elspeth would have been declared 
insane, had the neighbors heard the whole story. The 
fisherfolk would have thought her possessed of the evil 
eye, and called her a witch. As it was, nobody knew 
anything about it. And nobody was to know. For 
death sealed the only lips that could tell, and thus 
stopped criticism, and also fulfilled Elspeth’s darkest 
terrors. 

It was March. The equinoctial gales were at their 
worst. For some days off the coast of Scotland the 
winds had been very rough. The roar of the breakers 
boomed a roll of thunder as they tumbled and splashed 
among the rocks and boulders in a long line of writhing 
surge. They pounded on the sands. They dashed 
against the cliffs in a white fury, like maddened horses. 
They rushed back, only to charge again with renewed 
rage, and the spray showered the cliffs for many feet 
upward. Angry clouds drove fiercely across the sky. 
Flaring sunsets lowered over the sea, spattering wild 
colors on every white cap. And the fisherfolk watched 
anxiously from their huts upon the beach. 

123 


lU THE KNELL OF NAT PAGAN 


Near the village stood the Manor, the home of Cap- 
tain Pagan. It occupied an eminence looking over the 
fishermen’s huts, and out to the sea beyond. 

For many miles the coast stretched, fading into the 
distance; jutting with promontories, steep with preci- 
pices, receding with coves and bays; varied by sparse 
groves of trees, and the rich green of the level lands. 
Points and peaks and indentations, so far as the eye 
could reach, ever outlined against heavy gray skies; 
sometimes reflecting the gold and crimson of sunrise 
and sunset. But rarely did the coast shine clear below 
the sunshine and blue skies. 

Below the cliffs snuggled the fishing village, strag- 
gling up a slope. Beyond it extended the beach. The 
tide rose high and then fell away a hundred feet or 
more. With the ebb of the tide the waves rolled in to 
the foot of the precipices, and very near to the fisher- 
men’s cottages. With its flow it left a strand of golden 
sand, and the scattered stones and boulders sheathed 
with moss or hanging with seaweed. 

Captain Nat Pagan received word from his employ- 
ers that his vessel, the ‘^Parthenope,” would sail in 
two days. The Captain was a true blue, and a born 
sailor. A word from his employers was equal to a 
command. He never hesitated in obeying orders under 
any circumstances or in any weather. The sea he loved. 
And he was as fearless on land as on water. Indeed, 
he feared a pirate less than a highwayman. The sea 
is open and free. Sooner or later comes the warning 
of the approach of a pirate. 


THE KNELL OF NAT PAGAN 1^5 


^^But those land lubbers the Captain would ex- 
claim. ^‘They will hide behind a bush, or sneak around 
a hedge, or jump from behind a fence, pop their guns, 
and away goes your cargo, watch — valuables, and all. 
You’re lucky if 3 ^ou escape with your hulk V* 

The Captain told his wife of his coming departure. 
The order had come sooner than she expected. Indeed, 
without knowing why, Elspeth had been secretly dread- 
ing the Captain’s next voyage. Never had she made 
any remark, and, least of all, any fuss when the orders 
came. But Elspeth was greatly distressed this time. 
For the first time she dared to beg him not to go, plead- 
ing the equinoctial gales. 

The coasts of England and Scotland had been strewn 
with wrecks within the last week. Along the shore for 
miles were thrown up from the sea broken spars, torn 
sails, wreckage, and dead bodies; vestiges of the wild 
hurricanes which had shaken the seas. 

With Captain Nat Pagan pleading was in vain. He 
was obdurate. His command had come, and he was bound 
in duty to obey. To obey headquarters was second na- 
ture to the Captain. Obedience to his commanders, as 
he called his employers, held sway over him next to his 
intense love of the sea. He was as determined to go as 
Elspeth was fearful of his going. So it ended as most 
domestic arguments do ; in nothing gained or lost. The 
Captain was going. 

The Manor was embowered in trees. The groves 
guarded it from the blustering attacks of the winds. 


ue THE KNELL OF NAT PAGAN 


Small matter how terrible a storm raged, the Manor 
was sheltered and secure. 

The night before the Parthenope sailed a strong gale 
was blowing off the sea. In the Manor all was cosey 
and warm. A great fire of logs blazed on the library 
hearth. Elspeth sewed by the evening lamp. The chil- 
dren lay safely tucked into their beds, and the Captain 
was upstairs finishing his packing preparatory to his de- 
parture next morning. 

The maids had gone to the village. Elspeth sat 
alone in the library. While she thus sat, worrying 
about her husband’s anticipated voyage, a loud knock 
rapped on the hall door. Elspeth arose and answered 
the summons. No one was there. A puff of wind near- 
ly blew out the light in the hall. She heard the dis- 
tant roar of the breakers, beating on the sands and 
roclvs. And Elspeth stared into the darkness with 
surprise, and then returned to the library. 

Elspeth had not been seated long before the strange 
knock sounded again, softer this time. She opened 
the solid oaken door to be again amazed at seeing no 
one on the threshold. The lights of the village gleamed 
among the leaves, as the wind swayed and tossed the 
trees. In the angry gloom of the storm, she saw the 
white surf far below, darting among the crags like the 
wraiths of the many who slept among the waves. Els- 
peth lingered a moment out of curiosity, and then 
swung the door to. 

Once more Elspeth returned to the library. But the 
uncanny knock had disturbed her. To distract her 


THE KNELL OF NAT PAGAN 127 


thoughts, she picked up a newspaper. Twas full of 
accounts of the wrecks which had occurred along the 
coasts, and of the tempests at sea. Her fear increased. 
How could she overcome this feeling of approaching 
disaster? And if the future did hold trouble, how was 
she to prevent it? 

Captain Pagan was a prosaic, practical man. He 
would scorn Elspeth’s presentiment as fear; if not 
actually cowardice. Cowardice ! The very reason to 
keep him stubborn and dour in resisting her arguments 
and forebodings. Dread of a storm at sea ! He, a 
sailor, to he afraid of anything! A hurricane at sea! 
He would laugh at the idea. Why, the sea was his life, 
his love, his duty, his work, even his home. Elspeth 
shrank from broaching the subject. Yet had she not 
an apprehension of coming evil? Was it not a warn- 
ing? And should she not listen and do what she could 
to hinder what she feared? 

Again the knock! Eapping loud and clear. 

Elspeth started. And then called her husband. 

'^Well ! What do you want, dear?*’ demanded the 
Captain. 

Elspeth answered: 

^H’ve lieard a knock at the hall door three times. I’ve 
gone twice, and there isn’t a soul outside.” 

suppose the boys of the village are up to their 
usual pranks. They know I’m good-natured, like all 
sailors. But I’ll fix ’em!” 

And down the stairs hurried the Captain. 


128 THE KNELL OF NAT PAGAN 


'H’ll hide in the shrubbery and watch/^ said he, smi- 
ling good-humoredly. 

And the Captain bustled into the library, and out 
of a French window. 

For some time he stayed outside. Nothing happened 
and no one appeared. Thoroughly satisfied that it had 
been either a practical joke, or his wife’s imagination, 
he returned to the house as Elspeth opened the door. 

^^Are you there, Nat?’’ she called softly. 

^^Aye, aye,” replied the Captain, slipping out from 
the shrubbery. 

^^Did anything happen?” asked Elspeth, composedly. 

^^Nothing to interest or frighten me,” returned the 
Captain coolly. 

‘‘Why, dear, the knock has sounded thrice since 
you’ve been out there among the bushes; noisy knocks, 
too!” and Elspeth affected a laugh. “I came to see 
if you were playing a joke on me.” 

The Captain looked rather bewildered at this. 

“I haven’t been near the door. Are you sure you 
heard the knocks?” he asked. 

“So sure that I came in answer to them, suspecting 
that you were up to a bit of fun, just to cheer me up 
to-night.” 

“Nay! Not I!” said he, shrugging his broad shoul- 
ders. 

The Captain’s love of fun was a large part of his 
character. And as Elspeth laughed, he could hardly 
accuse her of an excited imagination. Apparently, she 


THE KNELL OF NAT PAGAN 129 


was in a mood for fun. So the Captain wisely or un- 
wisely said nothing. 

Poor Elspeth! With no ground on which to stand, 
she could neither protest nor argue. And, as an argu- 
ment, fear was out of the question. And love? Well, 
Nat Pagan would say that he loved her, all right; but 
that he must do his duty. And with him, duty mostly 
came before love. It had been trained into him from 
his boyhood, and so it must be to the end. 

Elsepth did not sleep that night. The gale had de- 
veloped into a hurricane. The thunder of the surf 
and the thud of the billows against the crags beat into 
her brain. The ghostly foam, in the darkness, rose 
before her, like wandering spectres, hopeless, despair- 
ing. Great breakers seemed to be plunging over their 
bodies, as the Captain and she lay quietly in bed. The 
stories of the wrecks she had read about, pictured them- 
selves in her mind so distinctly, so terribly, as if she 
had beheld them with her own eyes. And white dead 
faces, ghastly and silent, stared at her out of the ob- 
scurity, the horror of the night. Battered spars, like 
human lives cut short, heaved on the bosom of the 
tempest-tossed sea. Cries of agony shrieked with the 
wind. And there in the midst of the sullenness of the 
sea, and the sorrow of the storm, a huge black hulk, like 
the God-forsaken Flying Dutchman, towered above the 
ocean billows, the seething foam, and came diving to- 
ward her. 

On and on it came ! swaying and trembling ; plung- 
ing as the sea pounded its bulwarks and broke over 


130 THE KNELL OF NAT PAGAN 


its decks. And out of tlie night and the terror clanged 
the bell-buoy like a knell. Tolling ! Tolling a warning 
to the living ! Tolling ! Tolling the departure of hu- 
man souls ! 

Rap ! Rap ! Rap ! The knocks again ! 

Elspeth suppressed a scream. 

The Captain drowsily opened his eyes. 

What’s the trouble? Nightmare?” asked he in 
sleepy tones. 

‘‘No! ’Twas nothing!” shuddered Elspeth. 

“The storm has made you nervous, dear,” remarked 
Captain Nat. 

“No, no! Not nervous!” 

And Elspeth slipped out of bed and hurried to the 
window, watching the tempest of wind that whirled 
among tlie trees, and out on the turbid ocean. 

“Well! What’s the matter now?” demanded the 
Captain, rather annoyed, and sitting up in bed. 

“I’m only anxious,” pleaded Elspeth timidly. 

“Anxious! Anxious about what?” inquired Captain 
Pagan, exasperated at being wakened out of a gooa 
sleep. 

“Oh ! How I wish you would postpone your voyage !” 
begged poor Elspeth. 

“Postpone my voyage!” exclaimed Captain Nat Pa- 
gan, amazed at the suggestion, and almost angry. 
“Nonsense !” 

“Wait till these hurricanes are past ! They will soon 
be over now. I’m certain your employers would not 
mind waiting a few days more or less.^^ 


THE KNELL OF NAT PAGAN ISl 


And Elspeth’s baby-like face was wet with tears. 

But the Captain^s pride and indignation rose. 

^^Stuff!” he exclaimed. ^^You mustn’t think of it 
for a minute. I would not ask them to wait. As for 
a hurricane! I’m a sailor. My ship has breasted a 
hundred gales and tempests as bad as this. Surely the 
wife of a sailor wouldn’t be a coward !” 

Elspeth was silenced. 

The Captain rolled over on his side, and was soon 
snoring contentedly. 

Poor Elspeth ! What dark visions flashed before her 
inward sight ! Every moment she was tortured by 
fear and anxiet}^, like demons of Hades. And how the 
wind howled around the Manor ! 

Eap ! Eap ! Eap ! There they were once more. 
Would they never cease ! 

A jagged streak of lightning darted across the clouds 
and lit the room as brightly as day. 

Elspeth gave a cry. 

Captain Nat Pagan awoke, irritated at having his 
sleep again disturbed. 

^^What on earth is ailing you?” groaned the Captain, 
provoked. ^^You start at the least sound. Imagina- 
tion or nerves, dear?” 

'H do feel miserable,” said Elspeth timidly. ''Do 
light a candle!” 

The Captain arose, somewhat unwillingly, lit a can- 
dle and placed it beside her on a table. 

"I can’t sleep, Nat. I’m so wretched!” cried Els- 
peth. "You can call me a coward if you will; you may 


132 THE KNELL OF NAT PAGAN 


{^ay it is imagination if yon like; you may laugh at the 
knocks as a joke, and scorn them as nerves; but I know! 
I know ! Nat, dear, don’t go on this voyage I I feel 
terrible things about it. Think of the children ! Think 
of me!” 

And, womanlike, Elspeth burst into tears. 

Captain Pagan was overwhelmed by the tears; but 
not by the arguments. He comforted her in his big- 
hearted way, and dried her tears. For the rest of the 
night he sat beside her and did his best to cheer her. 

But it was in vain ! 

Elspeth, with her round blue eyes full of tears, and 
her full, sweet lips trembling, still pleaded her cause. 
And the Captain still remained like adamant. 

Elspeth maintained her ground from feeling, from 
love, and anxiety, apparently without reason or sense. 
And the Captain grew more determined. He held by 
his will, sheer obstinacy. He held by a man’s pride, 
and a sailor’s absolute fearlessness. So these two, 
hound so close together, remained far apart on the sub- 
ject of to-morrow’s sailing. 

For the first time the sea was an abyss between them. 
Courage and duty were on one side of it; love and 
fear on the other. No bridge crossed to unite them. 
An event of human life and feeling, which has been 
enacted a million times since the world began. 

Next morning the Captain bade farewell to Elspeth 
and the children. The storm had lessened. The wind 
had fallen. The sun arose clear, warm and bright; 
sparkling out over the sea, and shining on the wet 


THE KNELL OF NAT PAGAN 133 


grass and drooping foliage of the trees. Captain Pa- 
gan bade his wife an affectionate good-by, and although 
neither of them mentioned the subject of last night’s 
discussion, it remained in their hearts and minds. The 
Captain tried to inspire her with hope and courage by 
his words and caresses. And Elspeth felt his sympathy 
and kindness, reciprocating with her love and her faith 
in him. 

But dread of the future did not sleep. After her 
husband had gone the brood of anxious thoughts and 
harrowing fears returned in greater force, and with less 
resistance. Elspeth was alone. 

That evening the sun went down in a wild sea of 
fiery red clouds. The whole sky was ablaze. Banks 
of flaming clouds piled on one another, as they heavily 
ploughed across the sky. The sun showered over the 
ocean a million sparks of light, and licked every bil- 
low with a tongue of fire. The ruddy glow flared on 
every cap of seafoam. As the surf crashed on the 
beach it flashed with the tumultuous red of the set- 
ting sun. And the cliffs and sands reflected the angry 
hues, as if alive with the same fire. It boded ill for 
the night. 

And that night a terrible tempest burst over land 
and sea. The hurricane of wind lashed the waves into 
fury, and flung volleys of foam against the precipices 
and crags. It crested the rocks and filled the clefts 
with a maddened froth, like lions at bay. The billows 
heaped one on another, and plunged and tumbled with 
a mighty crash over the sands. They flowed back, and 


13A THE KNELL OF NAT PAGAN 


rushed furiously at the breastworks of safety, regiment 
after regiment of hungry, growling waves. They dashed 
into the huts of the fisherfolk. And the fishermen 
sought refuge in places of security. 

On the far side of the village from the cliff^s head 
shone out shar}) and steady the beacon light. Away 
on the reef, now hidden beneath the snowy manes of 
the lions of the sea, the melancholy, monotonous clang 
of the bell-buoy rang out its note of alarm. Lights 
moved up and down the village, and along the coast, 
like restless spirits seeking to aid those in danger and 
distress. On a night like this the village never slept. 

And the tolling of the bell on the reef boomed long 
and mournfully. Tolling! Tolling a warning to the 
living I Tolling ! Tolling the departure of human 
souls ! 

Elspeth looked from her bedroom window. Elspeth 
saw it all. All night the light burned in her room. 
Sleep had deserted her. Tlie power of the elements, the 
terror of the tempest, had entered her soul. Yet she 
knew that God was behind it all, and that she had no 
need to fear what He allowed. 

How the clouds raced across the sky! Surly and 
threatening! How the wind screamed and rushed 
through the trees ! And the foreboding of evil, how it 
tormented her ! Who was warning her ? Who, if not 
God? What was the meaning, the reason of this tor- 
ture of fear and dread? 

^^God help me !’^ she cried in her misery and terror. 

Poor, struggling human soul! God is still greater 


THE KNELL OF NAT PAGAN 135 

than we. ‘‘His ways are not our ways; nor are His 
thoughts our thoughts; for as the heavens are higher 
than the earth, so are His thoughts than our thoughts, 
and His ways than our ways.^’ And Elspeth was learn- 
ing Gods’ immutable and irrevocable truth. 

Next day the storm continued. Every hour news 
came up to the Manor from the village of the various 
pieces of wreckage washed up on the beach. The chil- 
dren were kept at home. But Elspeth haunted the 
streets of the village, the fishermen’s huts on the beach, 
and the coast-guard on the cliff. She questioned no 
one, spoke to no one. But death stared up at her from 
the wild ocean, weird and hopelessly. 

God is merciful ! And God was merciful to her. 

Elspeth passed like a ghost among the villagers. 
When the shadows of evening gathered over the fisher- 
men’s huts she slipped away to the Manor on the hill. 
That night Elspeth became very ill with a fever; 
brought on, said the doctor, “from exposure to the cold 
winds and the damp; also from some nervous mental 
strain.” Elspeth Avas wildly delirious; haunted by 
phantoms of the sea. 

And then the news came. The sad tidings of Cap- 
tain Nat Pagan’s death at sea, for a great wave had 
SAvept him from the helm of the Parthenope. No one 
told Elspeth. She would not have understood it if 
they had. But she knew, as Avomen sometimes know. 
Some Aveeks later Elspeth slipped into the mystery be- 
yond this life, where dread and anxiety have no place. 
TVhere love is life and all things, 


156 THE KNELL OF NAT PAGAN 


The abyss was bridged between Elspeth and her 
husband. 

It was the knock of death on the great hall door. It 
was a knell that boomed over the reef, away out in the 
wild sea. The knell of Nat Pagan! Tolling! Toll- 
ing a warning to the living! Tolling! Tolling the 
departure of a human soul! 


DR. SCHOLAR CRUTCH, 
OF ALLSFARNIA 


Many strange stories circulated through the old town 
of Allsfamia concerning one Dr. Scholar Crutch, a 
quaint and eccentric ancient. But of all the weird tales, 
only one was founded on fact. His medical genius, 
his passion for horses, his love story, all provoked the 
gossips and the old women of the town. For his genius 
was wonderful ; his passion extraordinary, his love affair 
certainly odd. 

And the gossips sat over their cups of tea and wove 
miraculous tales. Each gossip made a suggestion, or 
offered a suspicion. And each suggestion and suspi- 
cion soon became an accepted fact. No one questioned 
or doubted after that; the gossips made the tale; the 
tale must, of course, be true. 

So the tales grew, and waxed complex, and a mystery 
enshrouded fhem. But long after the old doctor’s 
death the truth crept out, as it will when it is left 
alone. Death had wiped away the falsities. And 
gradually the real tale remained, simple, strange in- 
deed, but the truth. 

The habits of Dr. Scholar Crutch were odd, and his 
manners unprepossessing. And many indeed were the 
137 


138 


DR. SCHOLAR CRUTCH 


persons whom he offended by his radical independ- 
ence. From these singular habits and manners orig- 
inated the innumerable queer stories which vibrated 
through the gossips’ quarters of Allsfarnia. 

In his latter days his favorite pastime was watering 
the grass. People scorned when they heard of it, till 
they witnessed the Doctor at work; then they laughed, 
with tears in their eyes. For there was something pa- 
thetic in seeing this quaint old man completely en- 
grossed in so simple a thing as watering his lawns. The 
onlooker who knew could scarce help comparing the 
Doctor’s youth, prime and old age. 

It might rain for a week, or perchance two, or even 
longer. The lawns might be radiantly green, and still 
over-damp. But the first dry day that appeared Scholar 
Crutch would be out on his lawns saturating the grass. 
Less a collar, tie and waistcoat, with his trousers 
turned up and a purple muffler tight around his throat, 
the Doctor would stand with his hose, or move slowly 
from one soppy spot to another, or even let it lie com- 
fortably near a garden walk, where it would soak into 
the ground. And there the hose would flow; not for 
an hour — that was too little ! — ^but for twelve hours, 
and sometimes for twenty-four, till Lonelymoor was 
surrounded by a mild form of moat. This was in the 
days when Lonelymoor was turned into a boarding- 
house. 

His neighbors said he was crazy. Neighbors are al- 
ways minute students of human nature. So, from their 
standpoint, he probably was. They wondered if the 


DR. SCHOLAR CRUTCH 


139 


paying guests of Lonelymoor brought top-boots when 
they came to board. They thought that Mrs. Perkins 
ought to request that of her boarders or else keep a 
pair for general use, whereby the guests could reach 
the sidewalk without sinking knee-deep in marsh, to 
the annihilation and desolation of their clothes. For 
the hose went on forever ! 

Dr. Scholar Crutch only spoke to people when he felt 
so disposed. This was a rare and useful habit of his; 
a habit some of us would like to acquire. 

When a fine morning came, sometimes a guest would 
descend with a cheery, optimistic smile, feeling exu- 
berant with the fresh joy of the day, and seeking to be 
friendly with the old man 

^^Good-morning, Dr. Crutch!” he would exclaim, 
hopefully. ‘Tsn’t the weather glorious? And how are 
you to-day?” 

But Dr. Crutch was oblivious — purposely so. Just 
as likely as not he gave the broadside of his shoulders 
to the chirpy guest, and continued watering the grass 
without comment. Indeed, without the faintest, glim- 
mering sign that he heard any voice, except the robin’s 
chirrup in the tree-top, or the cricket’s monotonous 
plaint in the grass. Every new guest suffered excessive 
spells of embarrassment as a result, and finally gave up 
all efforts at friendliness in despair. 

If Dr. Crutch did speak it was so sudden and dis- 
concerting that the boarders who chose to keep their 
equilibrium usually gave him a wide berth. 

The Doctor had dug up and planted a precious bed 


140 


DR. SCHOLAR CRUTCH 


on the front lara, wherein turnips and radishes throve 
to a portly extent. Next door lived a mischievous boy 
and a mischievous penknife, and when Dr, Crutch was 
out of sight the boy darted to the bed, freely helping 
himself to the coveted treat of raw turnip or radish. 
But there were times when the old Doctor was behind 
the parlor curtains of Lonelymoor, and then the thun- 
derous voice, which yelled so suddenly and so harshly, 
^Txet out of that!” thoroughly unnerved the young 
turnip-thief for a week afterward. Dr. Crutch had 
powerful lungs. 

The main peculiarity of his habit of not speaking to 
persons except wLen he felt so disposed was on occa/- 
sions of introduction. Accidentally Mrs. Perkins sev- 
eral times committed the offense of introducing stran- 
gers to the worthy old Doctor. Alack ! How deeply 
were they offended when cordially offering him a hand 
and a kindly ^^How d’ye do !” he turned his back and 
calmly walked away. Eccentric! cried his neighbors. 
Yes, from their standpoint he was. But if he did not 
wish to know the persons he was at least sincere. And 
how many have courage for such sincerity? 

And thus it came about that so many strange stories 
were whispered through the gossips’ quarters of Alls- 
farnia. But the Doctor’s oddities were largely respon- 
sible. And if we add this story, it is for the reason 
that it is mostly founded on truth. A story more or 
less about this quaint old man will not affect the fact 
of his well-known kindness to the poor, and for those 
far inferior to him in intellect. 


DR. SCHOLAR CRUTCH 


141 


Allsfarnia is a town with an aged history; a history 
which links itself with centuries. It spreads itself care- 
lessly on two banks of a restless, whirling river. Its 
streets and avenues run anywhere, in devious ways, and 
if you walk far enough without ending where you be- 
gan, eventually you find yourself in the midst of flat 
meadows and fields. The River Farnia throws its long, 
nervous arm half way round the town, and then sweeps 
away through steep, wooded banks to a vast blue lake. 
Ceaselessly the Allsfarnia mill grinds its wheels at 
the west end of the town. 

Day and night whirl the wheels of the mill; on and 
on in a dull wearisome roar. ^Tis soothing to the 
miller, but sometimes sadly tiring to all others. Week- 
day and Sunday the mill is never at rest. It is grind, 
grind, grind forever in the little town of Allsfarnia. 

Many years ago a black-haired, hopeful youth en- 
tered the restless town. No one knew where he came 
from or why he had come there. He came, and that 
was all the townfolk knew or cared about knowing of 
his past. 

The young man’s eyes sparkled with the fire of en- 
thusiasm. He looked as if he were bent on conquering 
the world; conquering it in his own way, and with his 
own special weapon. And his weapon was to heal and 
cure. 

Dr. Scholar Crutch had great faith in his potions and 
mixtures ; a tried faith. He knew them as only the most 
persistent student and anxious scholar knows who has 
given brain, heart and nerve to his own special work. 


142 DR. SCHOLAR CRUTCH 

and never considered his time at the bedside of a sick 
patient. 

From town to town, and village to village, this bril- 
liant and vagabond youth had wandered ; soothing tired 
nerves, healing sicknesses, renewing youth and health 
to all whom he treated. He had learned the deepest 
and darkest secrets of his art, and it was whispered that 
he used daring remedies which only men of medical 
genius had courage to employ. Indeed, some of the 
old wives of Allsfarnia declared that he had met 
witches, who had endowed him with miraculous knowl- 
edge — his cures seemed to them so wonderful. And 
yet, with all his brilliant intellect and his splendid 
knowledge. Dr. Scholar Crutch succumbed to love, like 
any other human being; indeed, he was more helpless 
in its power than a man of average intelligence. 

His wanderings ended for a while with Allsfarnia. 
There he settled down after a year’s hard work. With 
almost fanatical zeal he pursued his road ; thoughtfully, 
eagerly, wholly engrossed. No one ever regretted a 
visit to Dr. Scholar Crutch, and Allsfarnia soon learned 
to love and trust the black-eyed, nervous physician. 

It was a sunny, flower-sw^eet day in the summer time, 
as the Doctor sat in his office, his shaggy black curls 
tumbling lawlessly over his forehead as he bent over 
some deep treatise on medical science. On every hand 
were books. Shelves of books mounted to the ceiling, 
mostly medical. Books lay carelessly scattered on his 
reading table, and some had fallen on the floor. 

It was a small room, overlooking the seething, fear- 


DR. SCHOLAR CRUTCH 


143 


less river. Tlie windows were open and the insistent 
roar of the mill could be heard. Nothing brightened 
the room but the sunlight, and it stole in and out 
softly, Dr. Crutch being scarce aware that it came and 
went, so lost to all else but his work was he, at the age 
of thirty-four years. 

On this sunny day a slender hand pushed open the 
door, and a fair lily-like face peered in. It was a deli- 
cate lily face, surrounded by an aureole of golden hair, 
and deep set wdth two large blue eyes, fluid as sap- 
phires. Celeste was a maiden of eighteen years, and 
had grown up in the town of Allsfarnia. 

Timidly the girl opened the door and slowly entered. 
As the Doctor lifted his head in surprise she smiled 
radiantly. 

How beautiful Celeste had suddenly grown! So 
thought Scholar Crutch. 

‘^Well, Celeste! What can I do for you to-day?” he 
asked, wondering why he had never noticed her beauty 
before. 

“Mother is poorly,” returned the girl, in a low, shy 
voice. 

“What is the matter?” pursued the Doctor absently, 
drinking in the loveliness of the sapphire eyes and sun- 
lit hair. 

“Oh!‘ I don’t know. Could you come and see her 
to-day ? Perhaps this afternoon ?” with a little intona- 
tion of pleading, wonderfully fresh and sweet to the 
Doctor’s ears. 


DR. SCHOLAR CRUTCH 


lU 

think I could/^ he answered, smiling encourage- 
ment to the rather timid Celeste. ^^Will now do?^^ 
Yes ! I would be so glad if you would come ?” she 
responded eagerly. Mother looks so white and so 
tired.” 

"Poor soul!” murmured the Doctor, kindly. 

"I have been doing all the work this last week to 
save her,” continued Celeste. "But I am not a giant 
in strength, and I’m afraid I don’t get it all done quite 
well.” 

And she looked troubled. 

"I am certain it is all right,”' readily encouraged the 
Doctor, thinking to himself that anything done by Ce- 
leste would be near perfection. And then he added, 
irrelevantly, "How gaily the sun shines to-day!” 

"It always does,” murmured the girl softly. 

"Somehow I don’t seem to have noticed it shining so 
brightly before,” rejoined he, glancing at Celeste’s 
beautiful head as he gazed out of the window. 

"I love the sunlight, don’t you?” she asked, dream- 
ily, watching it dancing on the foaming crests of the 
turbid river. 

"I do, indeed !” came his almost ardent answer, as he 
leaned back in his chair, thoroughly lost in the golden 
ringlets of Celeste’s pretty head. 

"Some folks get up every day and never seem to 
think of it,” went on Celeste. "Isn’t that odd?” 

"Very!” replied Dr. Crutch, still lost. "Perhaps 
they needed someone to point it out to them.” 

Celeste laughed. 


DR. SCHOLAR CRUTCH 


145 


"How funny that would be!^^ she cried. 

"I don’t know that it would be so funny. You see, 

I never seem to have noticed it till he stopped, 

a trifle embarrassed as the girl turned her great inno- 
cent eyes on him. 

"Till what?’^ came her child-like question. 

"Till you showed it to me to-day,” he finished. 

"I?” laughed the girl. 

He nodded. 

"I think that is funnier tlian ever/’ she laughed. 
"You know you have lived so much longer than I 
have,” looking at him solemnly. 

"Yes, I have and I haven’t,” he remarked, standing 
beside her near the window. 

"Oh, but you have!” she declared earnestly. 

"Yes ! Yesterday I was older than you. To- 
day — ^ — ” he hesitated. 

"To-day what?” she asked gravely. 

"To-day I am no older than you I” And as Celeste 
laughed outright he laughed too, such a happy laugh. 

"Then let us play at children!” she cried merrily. 
"When I was little I used to like playing at 'grown- 
ups’; now that I am grown up I would like to play at 
being a child again; wouldn’t you?” 

"Indeed I would!” he exclaimed gaily. 

"But we must go to mother, now,” she said, sud- 
denly remembering why she had come. 

"All right!” returned the Doctor, with an odd, but 
delightful sense of obeying a little princess. 


146 


DR. SCHOLAR CRUTCH 


“Wonderful whispered Dr. Crutch to himself, clos- 
ing his book and his desk. 

And then he and Celeste set out for her home ; their 
first walk together. And to the Doctor it was a revela- 
tion. 

Celeste’s home was a trim little cottage nestling 
amid rose bushes. For years she and her widowed 
mother had lived here alone, on the poor little fortune 
her father had left. He had worked at the mill, and 
had lost his life beneath the mill wheels years ago. 
So the sound of the mill had a pathetic appeal for the 
mother. And she had chosen a cottage at the east end 
of the town, to be away from its mournful roar. 

Celeste’s mother, never overstrong, had failed much 
of late. It was a frail little woman whom Dr. Crutch 
came to see. She was sitting in the porch, her hands 
idly toying with her darning needles, the roses and 
wistaria drooping above her. The day was warm, and 
the wind just lightly caressed the silvery hair of the 
little old lady. Many years ago she had left her native 
land, and the old French courtesies and graces still 
lingered in her manners. 

She tried to rise as the Doctor approached; but he 
gently touched her arm saying kindly: 

“Never mind getting up for me. It is the privilege 
of age to rest.” 

“And you are so young and active,” she said, smiling 
half wistfully, and glancing up at the stalwart, sinewy 
man, with his broad, strong shoulders. 


DR. SCHOLAR CRUTCH 147 

^^And so is Celeste he returned cheerfully, observ- 
ing the mother’s anxious glance at her daughter. 

‘'Ah ! But Celeste is a woman, and she will have to 
work hard some day, for I shall not be long here to 
look after ” 

“Don’t talk like that, ch^rie!” interrupted Celeste 
tenderly. 

“But it is true, nevertheless, mignonne ! And the 
little we have will not always support you.” She sighed 
wearily. 

“Never mind about Celeste,” broke in the Doctor 
quickly. “She has youth and health.” 

“And I would they could last !” rejoined the mother 
sadly. “What a pity that we have to grow old!” 

“But some of us grow old gracefully and sweetly,” 
remarked the Doctor. “And you are one of these.” 

“Thank you,” she smiled. “As a girl I always hoped 
I would. To grow hard and critical as age creeps on 
is dreadful; even if it is hidden by charm of manner 
or intellect. I always had a horror of that. Such 
persons end their lives in a lonely, loveless way, and I 
always wished to end mine in love and peace.” 

“And you will have your way, cherie,” said Celeste, 
caressing the silvery hair of the little old lady. 

“I think so,” the mother said gently, as she drew 
the girl’s face down to her own and kissed it. “ Mig- 
nonne !*” 

Again the Doctor observed the strange look she gave 
Celeste. 


148 


DR. SCHOLAR CRUTCH 


^‘As for Celeste,” said lie lightly, “1 shall take care 
of her, and he a good guardian, too.” 

How he wished in his heart that it might be so ! 

‘^Do you mean that?” asked the mother earnestly. 

The Doctor made a rapid mental decision. 

‘^Yes, certainly !” he answered. 

^‘And you will take care of her after I am gone?” 
she queried. 

^^You can rely upon me for that,” he returned. 

Celeste blushed, but said nothing. 

Then the Doctor addressed her: ^^How would you 
like to look after my office, Celeste?” 

The girl’s eyes danced with pleasure; but she ven- 
tured shyly, ^H‘11 do my best.” 

^Tndeed she will !” added her mother. 

am satisfied of that,” said he, dreams flitting 
through his head of this sweet girl’s presence so near 
him in the days to come. 

‘^And I shall bring some of my roses and wistaria,” 
said Celeste, with a gay smile, ^Ho brighten your room 
and the books.” 

^^And you will bring the sunshine, too !” finished the 
Doctor, thinking of her recent visit to his office. 

^^Here’s a rose for you now!” she exclaimed happily, 
picking one off the vine which clambered over the 
porch. ^^And some wistaria, too!” 

With deft fingers Celeste tied the boutonniere and 
handed it to him. 

‘^You will pin it on?” he begged, looking down into 
her child-like blue eyes. 



-- i ^ 


‘ You will pin it on! 
like blue eyes. 


he begged, looking 


down into her child- 








DR. SCHOLAR CRUTCH 


149 


Cele&te pinned it on. 

‘‘That seals the bargain, mother!” she cried mis- 
chievously. 

And they all laughed. 

“And now what can I do for you to-day?” asked the 
Doctor, turning seriously to the mother. 

And then proceeded a consultation about the pa- 
tient. Her heart was very weak. Dr. Crutch said lit- 
tle, but he quickly realized that she had not long to 
live, and at any moment might be found dead. 

Then the days and weeks rapidly rolled away. Rap- 
idly for Dr. Crutch, for he had awakened to love ; love 
such as he had never known ; love of Celeste’s blue eyes 
and sunny hair. Here in Allsfarnia had this lovely 
flower been budding and blossoming, and he only now 
opened his eyes to its beauty. Why had he never wa- 
kened before ? Ah ! He had been so lost in his work. 
How little a thing it seemed now ! Dr. Scholar Crutch 
was changing, and Celeste knew it was love. 

Among the roses and wistaria in the porch some 
months later. Celeste’s mother was found dead. After 
the lonely period of mourning Celeste began her daily 
trips to the Doctor’s office, and she did what she could 
to help him in his work. 

What a strange new joy it all was ! 

How peacefully and happily the days passed for the 
lovers ! When the day’s work was done, what quietly 
joyous walks they had out in the meadows, under the 
stars, with the air flower-sweet around them ! And 
how tenderly Celeste felt his sympathy when they vis- 


150 


DR. SCHOLAR CRUTCH 


ited the churchyard where the mother lay sleeping be- 
neath a cedar tree, and they laid a wreath of roses and 
wistaria at her feet. They were blissful days indeed. 

At eventide they -would wander by the River Alls- 
farnia. Or seated on its wooded banks, listen to the 
mill wheels, grinding, grinding, or the river’s song, as 
it eddied in gushes of foam to the lake. Sweetly 
sounded the notes of tired birds as they hurried to their 
cosey nests. And the lovers watched the lights of the 
town, like a hundred eyes, opening one by one. 

Happy indeed were they! 

And then late one autumn, when the leaves were 
dying, the tragedy came. Celeste was standing by the 
river’s edge, listening to the mournful, monotonous 
music of the mill wheels, when the little constant heart 
ceased its beating forever. Dr. Crutch had never sus- 
pected the heart’s weakness. And the blue eyes closed 
beneath the mill wheels. And the golden hair floated 
on the foam of the restless river and was borne away 
to the vast blue lake. 

Dr. Scholar Crutch silently left Allsfarnia. 

For thirty years or more the Doctor roved no one 
knew where, and came again to Allsfarnia, no one knew 
whence. Scholar Crutch had aged. The black eyes 
sunk deep beneath shaggy black brows. The snows of 
age had whitened his unruly curls, and deep were the 
furrows of silent suffering which lined his face. His 
broad shoulders seemed to have shrunk and hunched 
up, and he walked as if forever in an unreal world. 

He was a rich man now. Money had flowed gener- 


DR. SCHOLAR CRUTCH 


151 


ously into his careless coffers since the death of Ce- 
leste. Success had followed him everywhere, though 
he cared little for it. Scholar Crutch was a saddened 
man. And no amount of money or success could wipe 
out the memory of Celeste. 

In the town of Allsfarnia he built a grand mansion 
with great rooms and halls. Lonelymoor he called it. 
He filled it with all that could inspire and satisfy an 
artist and a scholar. Rare books and curios from all 
over the world filled his shelves and decorated his ta- 
bles. And beneath its Ionic pillars Dr. Scholar Crutch 
opened its doors wide in hospitality and gayety. 

But the gayety did not last. He wearied of it all. 
Neither the maze of the dance nor the mystery of the 
theater could make him forget Celeste. As for love 
again, that was impossible. Women had no power over 
him. Neither brilliance of intellectual attainments nor 
beauty of face and form attracted him. And no spark- 
ling glass, however cheering, however stupefying, 
tossed away the sweet memories of the Long Ago. For 
a little while he might forget; but that was all. 

As time went on, his chiefest pleasure was his stable 
of horses. He had horses of rare beauty and grace, 
and with rare and long pedigrees. This soon became 
his one interest in life. 

Indeed, his love of his horses developed into a kind 
of passion. And he would spend hours and hours till 
midnight, and longer, poring over his books on horses. 

Soon his friends began to notice this strange absorp- 
tion. Then his patients began to feel its effects. Day 


152 


DR. SCHOLAR CRUTCH 


by day his office had been filled with weary and eager 
patients, earnest for his sympathy and services; but 
the famous physician was absorbed in horseflesh. And 
hour by hour his patients waited in vain, while he sat in 
his study poring over a volume on horses. Serious 
cases arose, and still Scholar Crutch was lost in his be- 
loved books, oblivious of everyone and everything. 

He had been known to calmly walk out to his stables 
and spend a whole afternoon among his horses while a 
crowd of patients waited in his rooms, only partly un- 
aware of his extraordinary passion. 

At first the neglected patients excused him on the 
ground of forgetfulness and eccentricity. But gradu- 
ally resentment awakened and though his friends in- 
terceded for him their rancor remained unappeased. 
These townfolk had their sense of justice and their 
measure of pride, and slowly they ceased to visit the 
great doctor. 

Morning, noon, and night, it was horses, horses. His 
meals were late ; his patients, what few were left, were 
absurdly neglected. And his friends gave up in de- 
spair. 

And no one guessed the truth back of it all. The ef- 
fort and the absorption of this strange passion buried 
Celeste in the past. Dr. Scholar Crutch forgot. 

One wintry day when the snow lay deep and the frost 
bit into the trees a loud knock sounded on his study 
door. Scholar Crutch was, as usual, lost in his favor- 
ite books, unconscious of all comers. But the knock 
was followed by the detennined knocker opening the 


DR. SCHOLAR CRUTCH 


153 


door and sturdily walking over to the doctor^s desk. 
He was one of Dr. Scholar Crutch’s late resentful 
patients. 

It was a splendid room. The walls were lined with 
fine old mahogany hook-cases, bulging with volumes. 
Five great windows opened on to a wide lawn, shad- 
owed by ancient oaks, and elms, and pines, now encased 
in snow. Long green velvet curtains were drawn aside 
to let in the sunlight, and it fell on rare paintings, and 
on marble busts of famous medical men, and on bright- 
ly-polished brasses from the Orient. On a carved ebony 
table inlaid with pearl, stood a vase filled with roses 
and wistaria; the only sweet human touch in the sol- 
emn room. The flowers blended their fragrance with 
the odors of ancient vellum and modern leather. 

Atmospherically, the stranger felt the room cold, un- 
approachable. Had he not come with a very grave pur- 
pose, willingly he would have retired. Deep in his vol- 
ume on horses Dr. Scholar Crutch was quite indifferent 
to the fact that several patients were awaiting him. 

^^How d’ye do!” called the man loudly and sharply. 

The Doctor did not lift his head, but answered cool- 
ly, ^^Well?” 

"That mine of yours, sir; I have come to speak about 
it,” the man said. 

Oh!” barely articulated the Doctor, turning a page 
and proceeding deliberately with his perusal. 

The man watched him a moment and then said in a 
hard voice : 


154 


DR. SCHOLAR CRUTCH 


^^The mine has been burned out; men killed; the 
machinery wrecked.” 

The Doctor did not move a muscle and continued 
reading to the end of the page. 

^^You have lost about five hundred tliousand, I 
guess,” continued the man icily. 

The Doctor calmly slipped the paper-cutter between 
the leaves and turning his head glanced at the man. 

"Cheerful news,” he remarked. 

"Very!” sarcastically from the man. 

"Anything more?” inquired the Doctor, indifferently. 

"Guess you’ll have to sell all this !” said the man, 
rather insolently, waving his hand around the room. 

The Doctor looked carelessly at his book-shelves and 
responded coldly, "Well! What of that?” 

The man stared in amazement at the reply. 

"And your horses!” added he slowly. 

Dr. Crutch gave an almost imperceptible start. 

"My horses ! My horses !” he said painfully, as if 
speaking to himself. 

"Yes, your horses,^’ concluded the man. 

"They have been good friends to me; friends in my 
loneliness,” went on the Doctor softly, as if he had 
not heard the man. "No one knows how good ! They 
have helped forgetfulness. And must I give them up?” 

The man stood half cynically studying the great 
doctor. 

"And why not?” he asked, almost rudely. 

"Ah! That’s it ! And why not? Why not?” And 
the Doctor gently fingered the pages of his volume. 


DR. SCHOLAR CRUTCH 


155 


"What are your orders?” inquired the man, scrupu- 
lously hard. 

"Sell ever3rthing,” murmured the Doctor absently. 

"And the horses?” pursued the man, persistently 
cruel. 

"And the horses.” With a sigh the Doctor bent 
again over his reading and became oblivious. 

And so the man left him. 

Some years later old Dr. Crutch, bereft of everything 
in life, wandered listlessly the streets of Allsfarnia, 
giving the poor his services, freely and kindly. 

Lonelymoor was sold; its stables, its books; its pic- 
tures; all he had possessed. Lonelymoor was now a 
boarding-house, and Dr. Crutch occupied the garret. 
A little bed, the ebony table, and, dearest to him of 
all, a picture of Celeste, were all that he had left of 
his once rich and artistic home. And the little ebony 
table still held its vase of flowers, fresh whenever the 
old man could get them. 

And here the great Doctor faded; faded with his 
wealth and his success. In an ancient black suit, shiny 
and rusty with wear, and a black tie as aged. Dr. 
Scholar Crutch lived and dreamed among his roses, 
gathering them while the flower-sweet season lasted. 
Forever watering the lawns, forever tending his rose 
bushes, he had ceased to hunt forgetfulness, and the 
memory of Celeste lay peacefully upon him. 

So the old man drifted into eternity; vanished with 
the roses; and the watering ceased. And the sun came 
and went, as in the days of Celeste. And the mill 


156 


DR. SCHOLAR CRUTCH 


wheel whirled on, unmindful; the monotonous lament 
ceaselessly vibrating through Allsfarnia. 

And as the light of another, kinder world filled the 
eyes of the dying man, the sunshine streamed over the 
ebony table and over the roses and wistaria. And he 
murmured softly, tenderly, as if to some dear presence : 

‘H lived and I died for you years ago. My dream ! 
Celeste! I tried forgetfulness; but I love you, still. 
Celeste! Celeste!” 


THE BEND OF THE HILL 


Wb had often watched the trains passing to and fro 
over the Tuthmay Eailroad. But the suggestive blank, 
after their disappearing around the bend of the hill, 
ever fascinated us, because of the mystery of the river 
and the bridge beyond. We never could know that the 
train crossed the Tuthmay bridge, and reached the 
other shore in safety. Watching the train was like go- 
ing on an unknown voyage — we never knew what was 
its end. 

In my early married life I lived a couple of miles 
from the Tuthmay railroad station. My house was on 
the bank of the Tuthmay River. It was a wide river, 
which swept out to sea in a wider mouth, spreading 
between muddy flats and level lands. From the dining- 
room window we could see the railroad and could fol- 
low it from the station. But as it neared the river 
we lost sight of it around the bend of the hill. Then 
we knew that the train, if we were following it with 
our eyes, had reached the Tuthmay bridge, and prob- 
ably was crossing it. 

My wife and I had come there in the early spring. 
We soon learned to love the railroad line. The enigma 
of the hill and bridge never ceased to interest us. All 
157 


158 


THE BEND OF THE HILL 


through the summer time we daily saw the trains run- 
ning over the road with such faith and surety, and we 
w^ould watch their twinkling lights as they spun along 
in the moonlight nights. It all seemed so certain then, 
with the smell of hay and the scent of flowers in the 
air, the clucking of chickens, the neighing of horses, 
and the sweet world of summer surrounding us. Never- 
theless, a strange fear of the bend of the hill often 
haunted us. 

In the rains and mists and on cloudy days it breathed 
a spirit forlorn and mysterious. We sometimes shud- 
dered, as we looked out across the flelds to the bend, so 
dark in tlie dreary light. And we would wonder at 
the bravery of the engineer in taking his train across 
the black, surly river. 

Then autumn approached. And as the days grew 
shorter, and the nights so long, the railroad began to 
have a horror for us. It still held us with a strange 
fascination; but fear gathered in our hearts, and we 
dreaded it. 

The hill was crowned with a coronal of the brown 
and gold of autumn. But when the leaves fell and the 
lack of foliage laid bare the boughs and twigs, the coro- 
nal faded into a crown of thorns. 

The days grew colder and very dreary; their gray 
skies banked with heavy clouds. And when the sun 
set it blazed on the bend and, we supposed, on the 
bridge, with a fury which might have burned both 
and laid them in ashes before morning. Would it had 
been so! 


THE BEND OF THE HILL 


159 


Winter came. Its chill winds, the snow, the ice, and 
the frost ! Such icy blasts blew off the Tuthmay Eiver 
and over fields of snow. The hill stood like a ghostly 
thing robed in white, and froze the neighborhood with 
its chilly aloofness. The river froze till it w^as a sheet 
of immovable ice, sphinx-like in its cruelty of cold and 
silence. The winds howled across it with a menacing 
fury. They roared up and down the river and around 
the bend, and we felt they must have frozen the very 
heart of the steel in the Tuthmay bridge. 

Sometimes its horror was too much for us, and we 
would pull down the blinds to shut it out, and throw 
more w'ood on the fire to make it burn up in a warm, 
comfortable blaze. 

Hurricanes of wind and snow drove madly over the 
Tuthmay Eiver. In a whirlwind of snow they circled 
the hill. Large drifts they threw over the fences and 
into the hollows. They shrouded the trees and the 
hedges in white, and made cowled monks at their 
prayers of the bushes and haystacks. 

Every roof and barn was sheathed in snow. And it 
drove thick and fast, till the air became opaque. Some- 
times we w'ondered how' the trains ever struggled 
through such blinding storms of snow and ice. 

The track was kept clear in winter, as the Tuthmay 
route was an important one. Day after day in the cy- 
clonic storms of winter, we would hear the whistle of 
the train as it neared the bend, and we would hurry to 
the windows and watch it. Tlie long, black thing (it 
seemed alive to us) would strive and writhe through the 


160 


THE BEND OF THE HILL 


drifts and banks of snow, blowing white steam into the 
air with its panting. It would squirm its way along 
slowly, top-heavy (it appeared like a huge tortoise), 
and ever tending towards the cold and ghostly hill. 
Then it would vanish from sight, and we were awed by 
the mystery of the bend. 

One stormy, wintry evening about the middle of 
January, my wife and I were cosily sitting by our fire- 
side. Our baby boy had not seemed very well that day 
and I was glad to see my wife resting while the boy 
slept. Our fireplace was an old-fashioned open grate, 
and a kettle hung at one side steaming and puffing and 
singing cheerily. I was sprawling on a rug before the 
fire smoking a pipe, while my wife was ensconced in a 
big, cosey chair. We could hear the wind howling 
around the house and screaming down the chimneys. 
The veranda creaked, and the twigs of the bushes 
snapped with the bitter frost. 

‘^What a terrible night said my wife, giving the 
fire a friendly poke. 

^^Terrible indeed;” I answered lazily. 

^‘How glad I am that you are not an engineer, dear !” 
she said with a sigh of thankfulness. 

On a night like this it would not be very pleasant ; 
rather more uncomfortable than this,” I returned, puf- 
fing contentedly at my pipe. 

Fancy what the bridge and the river must look like 
on a stormy night like this!” And she shuddered. 

^^Dreadful !” I answered sleepily. 

^^When I think of all those crowded, lighted cars. 


THE BEND OF THE HILL 


161 


with their freight of trusting humanity, it makes me 
shiver when I think of the bridge. I don’t envy the 
engineer. What a responsibility !” continued my wife, 
as if picturing it to herself. 

Don’t think about it !” I suggested, snuggling close 
to the fire, for the engineer’s life did not seem an easy 
one on that night. 

^^But somehow I can’t help thinking about it to- 
night,” she went on quietly. "And thinking of all 
those people when the train crosses ” 

But her remark was cut short. 

In the midst of our homely enjoyment a knock 
sounded on the front door. I went out and opened it. 
A man stood on the threshold, covered with snow. As 
I opened the door he handed me a telegram and asked: 
if there was an answer. 

I read it. My father was dangerously ill; would I 
come at once? It was from my mother. 

I knew the night train passed our station at ten 
o’clock. It was nearly half-past nine now, allowing 
me scarce more than a half hour’s grace to pack and get 
there. And it was a dreadful night. 

I hurried into the room where we had been sitting. 
My wife paled as I told her. 

"Such a night, dear !” she exclaimed anxiously. "And 
that awful bridge ! But if your father is so ill you 
must go!” 

So I hastened to pack a few things, and soon I was 
ready. Indeed, I was saying good-by, when we heard 
a scream from our boy. I flew upstairs as if my feet 


162 


THE BEND OF THE HILL 


were winged, my wife following. I burst into the room 
and there was the poor little fellow on the floor, strug- 
gling with infantile energy to free himself from the 
melee of bedclothes. A crying spell followed, and we 
had our hands full and our brains bus}" trying to soothe 
and alleviate the little man’s distress. In the midst of 
this unexpected excitement I forgot the time. 

“Any answer, sir?” came the man’s voice up the 
stairs. 

“No! I’m coming!” I shouted back, heading for the 
stairs in haste. 

“Coming for what?’^ inquired the man, as with light- 
ning speed I arrived at the foot of the steps. 

“Ten o’clock train !” I answered sharply, indignant 
with the man’s apparent stupidity. 

“Ten o’clock train!” he cried surprised. 

“Of course!’^ I replied. 

The man gasped. “Why, you’re too late !” 

“Too late, man ! It’s a matter of life and death. I 
must go!” 

“Just about ten minutes to ten, sir,” he said quietly, 
taking out his watch. “Can’t do it a night like this.” 

“It must be done! We can cross to the track from 
here and signal the train.” 

I grew more determined as he more doubtful. 

“That is all very well in the summer time,” re- 
marked the man, “but the train will have reached the 
bend by the time we cross the fields. Lord, sir! On 
a night like this! And at this hour! Your signal will 
go unseen. It can’t be done.” 


THE BEND OF THE HILL 


163 


And he slowly shook his head. 

^^Our chances are slimmer now, with all this waste 
talk,” I returned angrily. "^Life and death, fellow! 
Come, let’s try for it!” 

The man deliberately pointed to the door and said: 

‘^Look outside, sir!” 

I did so, and gazed out on the wildest night I had 
ever seen. I had witnessed many storms in that neigh- 
borhood, but such a blizzard as swept the world that 
night I have never seen since, and never wish to see 
again. 

As I looked toward the railroad a feeling of terror 
came over me. But the man’s voice broke in upon my 
fear. 

"Well, sir, what do you think of it?” 

I turned silently. Our eyes met and I felt that the 
man shared my strange foreboding terror. 

However, it passed, and I bade the man warm him- 
self, and my wife made him a cup of tea. It was five 
minutes to ten by the dining-room clock. 

The logs on the fire crackled cheerfully as they spat 
long tongues of flame and showers of sparks into the 
chimney. The clock ticked steadily on. My thoughts 
flew to my sick parent. I was filled with anxiety as I 
thought of my mother’s telegram. And I was blue at 
having missed the train. 

In the midst of these distressing reflections my wife 
laid her gentle hand on my arm. 

"Baby is asleep,” she murmured softly. 


164 . 


THE BEND OF THE HILL 


^^May be/^ answered I, rather irritably; ^^biit I wish 
he had had his fall after I had gone instead of before 
am so thankful you are not out in that storm,” 
she continued, ignoring my irritation. And then she 
added, with a strange, far-away expression in her eyes : 
^^God has a wonderful way of accomplishing things, 
despite everyone and everything. And experiences 
that look very black to us often hide some deliverance 
from worse trouble, or cloud the sun, that it may shine 
all the more brilliantly later on. I am sorry, dear, 
that you have missed the train. But perhaps God had 
a reason for it.” 

I was surprised at her earnestness, for my mind was 
with my father. Now that baby slept, his fall appeared 
a light matter compared with the telegram. But as 
she stood there smiling up at me I felt reassured. 

Having missed the train I was interested in seeing 
it pass. It would only increase my misery to see I had 
lost it, and for so small a matter as baby’s fall. But 
I stood there, my wife beside me. I suppose it was 
human nature ; so we all continue to think of the things 
we have dearly lost. 

’Twas a terrible night! 

The wind rose fiercer as the night advanced. It 
moaned and shrieked among the rafters; it groaned 
around the eaves; it shook the house in its mighty 
grasp. Hither and thither the snow was scurrying, 
piling up and blowing down, sweeping in grand circles, 
and whirling in little eddies, darkening the night in 
clouds of flakes. Here and there appeared a cottage 


THE BEND OF THE HILL 


165 


light, flickering hopelessly in the tempest. Far away 
near the bend of the hill we could see the green light ; 
it seemed to say, '^take care.” And w'e knew that the 
white light was shining along the tracks, signaling to 
the approaching express a clear road and safe passage 
across the Tuthmay bridge. 

As we watched we lieaTd the whistle of the train, 
long and clear. And we knew that it had reached the 
station. Then the clock on the mantle struck the 
hour. Ten it chimed. 

The nrian by the fire finished his cup of tea and arose, 
rubbing his hands vigorously in anticipation of his icy 
drive. He bade us a hearty ‘^Good-night!” and was 
gone. 

Monotonously the clock ticked on. I glanced at it ; the 
minutes seemed hours. Unless the ten o’clock express 
was signaled to stop it passed right through the Tuth- 
may station. In another minute it ought to be at the 
bend of the hill. And soon it would speed out on the 
Tuthmay bridge. 

My wife pressed m}^ arm. There it was ! Winding and 
crawling through the whirlwind of snow and the high 
banks ; the ruddy glare from its funnel gleaming on the 
night like the eye of a black devil. The lights of the 
passenger cars glimmered and twinkled through the 
eddying snow, and shone luridly in the mist, like so 
many baby devils, merry and ready for a night’s frolic 
with the blinding flakes. On came the train! Now 
it seemed a demon, with its lurking, gloomy flame and 
smoke, smearing the atmosphere; again, a great dark 


166 


THE BEND OF THE HILL 


monster fighting for life, and in its last death throes 
amidst the snow. Horrible it was! But it held us 
by the window with a weird, inexplicable power. 

Nearer and nearer the express approached the bend. 
How we wished the hill would vanish and let us see 
it cross the bridge! Then the train whistled, as it 
ever did near the bend; whistled a full, ringing sound, 
as if to reassure us that it had fared well so far on 
its journey. 

It was five minutes past ten. Slowly the glaring 
fire of the engine disappeared; the baggage cars fol- 
lowed; then the passenger cars, the lights dancing 
brightly and hopefully as they vanished behind the 
bend. Finally the last car receded with its red tail 
light Danger and the hill gloomed darker than ever. 

My wife sank into a chair, with almost a groan of 
relief, as if she had experienced a heavy strain, and 
was completely exhausted. 

^Tt is on the Tuthmay bridge now,” she sighed 
deeply. 

^^Yes! And I might have been there, too, and part 
way on my jour ” I broke off. 

^^Good God!” I cried. ^‘What was that!” 

In a moment we were at the window. With awe- 
struck faces w’e gazed out. The train whistled, and 
whistled again — wild shrieks which fell weirdly on the 
night. The last mad scream died in a tremendous 
crash and a strange gurgling sound. We stared at the 
bend as if our eyes were chained to the spot. A great, 
dazzling red light shot into the heavens, shone a mo- 


THE BEND OF THE HILL 


167 


ment, faded to a glimmering brightness, and then died. 
It left the night blacker than before, and the hill more 
sullen. 

The wind wailed and cried over the fields and around 
the house. It whistled shrilly through the key-holes 
and rattled loose windows. A harsh sound from the 
veranda, told that the frost was biting into the soul 
of the wood. The snow twirled and whipped into eddy- 
ing gusts over the roofs, the meadows, the orchards, 
and away on the dark, bleak river, where the ice 
creaked against the shores. The stillness of death 
spread over its glassy surface. 

For hours we stood at the window. The clock ticked 
the minutes as they fled away. It chimed the hours as 
they swiftly passed. We did not speak. We knew 
how time sped on. The fire sank to ashes. The kettle 
ceased its song. The lamp burned ever lower. 

Days seemed to have slipped away when dawn started 
in the east. As day drew on the lamp paled and died. 
Still we stood there, our eyes riveted on the bend with 
a deadly fascination. 

As the light brightened with sunrise, the air grew 
chill. The storm had passed. In its sea of wintry 
blue the sky was fresh and clear. Everywhere the 
snow gleamed dully in the early morning. The wind 
had fallen and hardly a breath stirred. In the distance 
the Tuthmay River lay still and quiet ; tomb-like in its 
sheet of icy armor. Gazing on the peaceful landscape 
we could scarce believe such a blizzard had whirled 
around us the night before. 


168 


THE BEND OF THE HILL 


The hill frowned dark, cold, ghostly, and a mystery 
enshrouded it. We dreaded it. 

No train had passed over the Tuthmay railroad since 
the ten o’clock express had vanished last night around 
the bend of the hill — out of our sight, and out of the 
world ! 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


CHAPTER I 

A GARDENER does not seem a very important person 
in a household; but Prue’s gardener was an unusual 
one. He certainly kept her rose bushes in good order, 
and probably did much toward making the garden of 
her life a sweet, sunny spot. 

^Twas a glowing summer day. Roses poured their 
souls into the sunny air, making the world sweet with 
their goodness. The meadows rippled away in the 
golden haze to the far blue hills. Knolls of woodland 
marked here and there a cool oasis of shade. The songs 
of bird and stream bubbled and trilled by the hedges. 
And the long chirrup and hum of a thousand insects 
droned lazily in the tall grasses, where daisies and 
buttercups, wild roses and violets, offered their sweet 
lips filled with honey. 

A life full and free ! 

A sailor for me! 

The billows to guard o’er my sleep! 

The foam and the spray; 

My bridal array; 

And my love and my home the blue deep !’’ 

169 


170 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


Over the meadows came a ringing voice, singing with 
a fullness of gayety and life the w^ords of her song to 
the air of ^^Drink to me only with thine eyes Prue 
had once told Maria McCutcheon that she loved the air, 
but that the words were excessively sentimental, and 
such nonsense did not appeal to her ideas of love. 

'^Oh, I know the world thinks it beautiful ! But be- 
cause the world thinks so is no reason why Prudence 
Chesterfield should think so !” wherewith she made a 
low and graceful courtesy to the chronically astonished 
Dan and his practical spouse, Maria McCutcheon, and 
danced away. 

As the voice came nearer and nearer there was a 
great clattering of hoofs and a great scattering of peb- 
bles, and Prue came flying into the kitchen garden on 
the back of her favorite horse, “Wildfire.” 

Maria McCutcheon was bending over the washtub, 
her red arms seethed in soapsuds, and her broad, good- 
natured face, with its shrewd blue eyes rubicund with 
the vigorous rubbing of various white articles. 

“Ship ahoy I Miss Prue; what a wild thing you be! 
Come merry, go gay! My heart ’ull be easier if the 
lad o’ yer future proves a man o’ sense and soundness.” 
And Maria squeezed and Avrung out a towel with a 
flourish of decision, as if the man’s neck would suffer 
if he were otherwise disposed. 

“Pshaw! My old Maria!” gaily answered Prue. 
“Make your troubles and mend them. Whether he has 
sense to smile, or sense to scold, ’tis all one to me, so 
long as I love him. But if I don’t love him, he may 


TRUE’S GARDENER 17 i 

have a million cents ; no price will buy the heart of 
Prudence Chesterfield. ” 

And she laughed merrily as she leaped on to the 
ground. 

‘^Poor Minot Braid !” sighed Maria, deprecatingly. 

Prudence heard, but tossed her head defiantly. 

‘^We don’t care, do w^e?” she whispered to Wildfire, 
nobody else loves me, you will. And I’d rather your 
love, you faithful old soul! than the caprice of a man 
I’ve never seen!” 

Dan solemnly removed his pipe from his mouth and 
stared at Maria, who took no notice of him. Then he 
replaced his pipe, closed one eye and stared at the 
bowl, as if the smoke rolling up therefrom could solve 
the problem of Miss Prue’s future. 

^^Mr. Minot Braid’s not that bad, I’m sure. Miss 
Prue,” ventured Maria, sousing a pillow-slip with great 
vigor. 

Prue stamped her foot impatiently. 

^^The idea of my father promising me to any man! 
And without my consent ! To be parceled up some day 
and sent by express, cash on delivery, with a tag fas- 
tened on somewhere, ^Glass — With Care’ ! ’T would 
serve my big Daddy right if this precious Minot Braid 
Just sent me back to him again — ^Returned with 
Thanks— Not Wanted’ !” 

Maria looked up hopelessly, and then burst into a 
peal of noisy laughter. Again Dan winked solemnly, 
and said nothing. 

•^Miss Prue! Miss Prue !” exclaimed Maria, on re- 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


172 

covering ner breath. ^^You beat all! I 'ad the bring- 
ing of ye up, an’ I did try to make ye a proper, sensible 
person; but at times I’m wondering I’ve been amiss 
somewhere. Now there’s Miss Maida, yer small sister, 
an’ she’s sound as a ripe apple, an’ just as proper. You 
see, I could always manage ’er. But as for yerself. Miss 
Prue, there be no law for ye; neither mine nor yer 
Daddy’s. Ye was ever a law unto yerself,” and with 
a prolonged sigh, Maria again soused her arms in the 
washtub. 

^^Never mind, Maria !’^ said Prue, gently rubbing 
Wildfire’s nose. ^^You have done your best, and I 
haven’t made the best of your care and wisdom. Per- 
chance it’s my fault; or maybe Wildfire’s!” 

And Prue laughed softly. 

^AVildfire !” sniffed Maria McCutcheon to herself 
with a pang of jealousy. 

^‘^Well, Maria, to change the subject, has Dan been 
able to get a new gardener?” 

Marie glanced at her idle spouse. 

^M’ve heard nothing. Ask Dan. Them’s as sits loiter- 
ing about the most part of a day gathers all the news.” 
Maria’s glance was a scornful one, as it shot in the di- 
rection of her amiable better half, who was sitting out- 
side the door, his chair tipped back against the wall, 
and contentedly smoking his pipe. 

^‘Eh! What’s that. Missy ?’^ inquired Dan, as if only 
partially awake, turning to Prue. did hear the 
master say as how a Donald Jackson was a-coming day 
after to-morrow, just to ’elp old Dan keep the gardens 


PRUE’S GARDENER 173 

spic an’ span. But I wouldn’t say as liow I’m right. 
No; I wouldn’t say that.” 

Prue smiled. She knew that Dan’s position as gar- 
dener meant almost nothing. But owing to her father’s 
kindness old Dan, who had served in the family twenty 
years or more, was kept on the farm. He dabbled a 
little in the garden, drew his small pay, and puffed at 
his pipe a very great deal from one week’s end to an- 
other. 

"Do you know anything about him, Dan?” queried 
Prue. 

"Nothing speshul. Missy; ’cept he’s a big fellow, an’ 
nice-spoken sort of. Howsomever, I wouldn’t say that, 
if I hadn’t heerd yer father so talking. No ; I wouldn’t 
say that unless I had.” 

"It’s a wonder ye ain’t given up saying at all ! Ye’re 
so took up with yer pipe. Ye never see anything bey on’ 
its bowl, an’ yer brains is nigh as clear as the smoke.” 
And Maria vented her wifely wrath in the washtub. 

Dan, with great dignity, ignored his spouse’s flatter- 
ing remarks. 

"I daresay Donald Jackson ’ull be able to ’elp me, 
all right. Miss Prue. I daresay.” 

"If he don’t do no better than you, he’ll do sure !” 
interrupted Maria, scornfully, stretching a towel with 
a jerk as if, Donald failing, he would be subjected to 
like treatment on his departure. "He can’t do no 
worse. That’s one thing sure.” 

Dan just closed one eye and twisted his pipe to the 
other side of his mouth and said nothing. 


174 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


“Well! I hope Donald Jackson will take good care 
of my rose bushes. To me they are the most important 
part of the garden. The vegetables are superfluous, 
and such a bother!” said Prue. 

“We couldn’t get on without ’em, Miss Prue !” inter- 
jected practical Maria McCutcheon. 

“I could,” laughed Prue. “But my roses ! Oh, they 
are so beautiful ! So sweet ! The only weakness I have 
that is at all sentimental, Maria !” 

“But we couldn’t think of living on roses. Miss 
Prue!” protested Maria. 

“The world couldn’t, Maria. But I could. And I 
don’t care a row of pins what the world thinks about 
anything, even vegetables. What I think rules my 
life.” 

And Prue proudly leaped on to Wildfire’s back and 
pranced around the garden. 

“Ye were ever a law unto yerself !” murmured Maria, 
shaking her head solemnly, as she watched the haughty, 
independent air of her pet child. 

“Daddy can manage the vegetables,” said Prue, re- 
turning with Wildfire to Maria and Dan. “But Donald 
Jackson will have to do as I direct about my favorites, 
and if my roses suffer ” 

Prue stopped short and frowned. 

Maria looked up from the tub and Dan held his 
breath and did not wink. 

“Beware, Donald Jackson !” finished Prue. “Beware 
my roses !” 

“Poor Donald Jackson! It’ll be worse for ’im than 


PRUE’S GARDENER 175 

it was for the last gardener, if he disobeys Miss Pme V* 
said Maria McCutcheon to herself. 

The last gardener had a falling out with Mr. Ches- 
terfield. They disagreed over some arrangements in 
the vegetable garden and the gardener had disobeyed 
him. Prue alone had the privilege of disobeying Mr. 
Chesterfield. He never could resist the high spirit 
of his pretty and wilful daughter. Thus it came about 
that the farm had no gardener. Despite Dan’s cheerful 
efforts the flower beds and the kitchen garden grew 
more weedy and untidy every day. 

Mr. Chesterfield had advertised for a gardener in the 
nearest town. Having no satisfactory answer, he had 
tried a large daily in Chicago. The latter effort had 
proved successful. 

So Prue went off in search of her father to hear the 
results. 

And the new gardener, Donald J ackson, was coming. 

Thomas Chesterfield had been a dashing young officer 
in his early days ; chivalrous to ladies, and steadfast to 
friends. He was a proud-spirited man, and too inde- 
pendent to win success in this world; success as it is 
recognized in wealth, position and power. He was 
quick wdth a blow; but it was an even match when 
Thomas Chesterfield had a battle to win, for his sense 
of truth and honor was as straight as his blows, and as 
strong and alert. 

He was born and brought up in Boston ; educated for 
the ministry by his father’s wish. But on the death of 


176 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


the latter he gave up his college career and went into 
the army, where his spirit had longed to be. 

While at college in Boston he had made many 
friends, chief among whom was one Jonathan Braid. 
They were opposites in temperament ; but their friend- 
ship was a firm one. J onathan Braid was gentle, quiet, 
and rather retiring ; but he had possessed a ready wit, 
which had won the heart of merry Thomas and had 
made him a favorite with all their college friends. 

Jonathan Braid was never very strong, and only by 
the constant care of his affectionate and wealthy par- 
ents had he grown to manhood. After his career at col- 
lege he married. His marriage proved a very unhappy 
one. And a little son was born of it before he and his 
wife parted. 

Shortly after his separation from his wife his father 
died. And the double grief was too much for his never 
over-strong constitution. His heart was affected, and 
after a short illness he passed away from all his trials 
The little son, 'Minot, was left to the care of a maiden 
aunt, having no nearer relative left with an ample pro- 
vision for his needs during boyhood, and a very large 
fortune when he came of age. 

On his deathbed J onathan Braid asked to see his old 
college companion, Thomas Chesterfield. And the 
dying man begged him to keep a kindly interest in his 
little son. He also asked a half promise of his old 
friend — that if ever Thomas had a daughter, he would 
make a match between her and Minot. His own mar- 
ried life having been such a failure he felt anxious for 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


177 


his son’s future. Knowing the splendid traits of his 
friend Thomas, he felt that his daughter might prob- 
ably inherit the same strong, free, bold spirit of his be- 
loved college chum. Thomas Chesterfield gave his 
promise, thinking it foolish the while, as the thought 
of marriage had not yet entered his head. 

Thomas Chesterfield returned to his beloved army 
work. But not till two years after his friend’s death 
did he marry. His married life was exceedingly happy 
and unclouded. As his two daughters. Prudence and 
Maida, grew up, he retired from the army, living on a 
small income, mostly a legacy left by his father. He 
settled in the Western states, and bought some land, 
cultivating it carefully and adding to it each year. And 
he had a fair-sized farm, not a large one, surely, but 
one that was well tilled and cared for. 

The house was a rambling, picturesque building, with 
peaks and gables on every side, fashioned as it was by 
various additions as necessity required, and as the 
years rolled on. A quaint, green-latticed porch opened 
at the front door, over which a medley of rose vines, the 
golden jessamine, and the purple-robed clematis, scram- 
bled and interwove their blossoms. At the western 
side of the house a large piazza overlooked the neatly- 
kept lawns, and the myriad-colored, old-fashioned flow- 
er-beds. And from a knoll across the lawn, where a 
grove of oaks and firs kept it cool and shady in the 
summer time, the stream Silverdike could be seen me- 
andering through the orchard. Beyond that, the mead- 
ows and fields rolled away to the purple hills. 


178 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


Prudence Chesterfield was now seventeen. Her 
mother had passed away two years before, and Prue was 
sole mistress of the establishment. The consciousness 
of responsibility had somewhat tamed her wild spirits. 
And it certainly had developed rare housewifely knowl- 
edge and management, and a certain quiet dignity and 
firmness of will that all obeyed without questioning 
when Prudence chose to command. 

Prue had grown up with the knowledge of her 
father’s promise to Jonathan Braid; but had never 
thought much about it, nor seriously. When she was 
a very tiny girl and Minot a boy of ten or twelve years, 
they had played together. Indeed, they had been very 
happy. Though sometimes Prue’s proud, high spirit 
had broken loose; then Minot had spent lonely, de- 
pressed hours till Prue had returned to her sweetness 
again. Sometimes it was Minot’s fault; sometimes 
Prue’s ; but the latter had usually made the first friend- 
ly advances. Perhaps, Minot had possessed a proud 
spirit of his own; but he hid it away. Whereas, Prue, 
when aroused, was like a conflagration. However, these 
days seemed so long ago that she had quite forgotten 
what Minot looked like, and really did not care. 

Minot was at college now, or nearly through, she did 
not know which. They would probably not be married 
for a few years anyway. And pray, what might not 
happen in that time? So thought Prudence Chester- 
field. 

He was studying to be a doctor. She knew that 
much. But as she had always been strong and well, she 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


179 


despised tlie profession, and declared sweepingly that 
doctors made people ill, and the world would get along 
much better if there were fewer doctors and more com- 
mon sense. Prue hit straight from the shoulder, just 
like her father; but she did it with her tongue. 

So little Prue grew in stature, in decision and dig- 
nity of character. And she also grew in grace of body 
and beauty of face. And all the world (her small 
world surrounding her), loved and obeyed her. 

It was a luminous sunny day, the day the new gar- 
dener arrived. The gardens were brilliant with flowers, 
myriad-hued, like a sunburst of opals. A dash of crim- 
son hollyhocks almost hid the parlor windows. Vio- 
lets and pansies dotted the lawns. And in the orchards 
was the first bright gleam of the ripening fruit. The 
foliage of the maples and elms seemed particularly 
fresh and green. The rhododendron bushes had burst 
into a late shower of red and pink blossoms. And the 
blackening berries of the bramble shone like little dark 
eyes out of the hedges, where the elderberry and milk- 
weed tangled their blossoms with a medley of scram- 
bling vines and prickly raspberry bushes. 

The yellowing grain in the distant fields bent and 
rippled before a brisk breeze. Silverdike pattered and 
whirled over its pebbly bed, making music beneath the 
apple-trees ; winding in and out of shadow and sunlight. 
And the air hummed with bees and insects and trilled 
with the sweet notes of the cheery feathered family. 

Summer time indeed ! The air was full of it ! Rich, 
strong, sweet and electric ! It was good to be alive ! 


180 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


At least so thought Prue and Maida, as they watched 
expectantly for the new gardener. Every event inter- 
ested them, however small. It was some excitement in 
their quiet, monotonous life. And Mr. Chesterfield 
thought this gardener was a particularly taking” fel- 
low. Whereupon Prue had made up her mind to be 
hypercritical on the subject. 

Prue looked her sweetest this day, in a simple frock 
of pale blue muslin. Her chestnut curls escaped in 
wild profusion from under a blue poke bonnet, and 
framed a face refined in feature and sweet in expres- 
sion. Her chief beauty lay in her eyes — ^large, liquid, 
dark-blue eyes, with long dark lashes, which lent them 
a softness quite irresistible. There was a womanly firm- 
ness in the chin, and a bewitching dimple at the corner 
of her mouth, where mischief and a smile readily 
played. But the little aquiline nose was haughty and 
aristocratic, and when its small owner was offended, the 
sensitive nostrils had a way of playing which betray e-d 
an impatient, imperioiis spirit, fond of dominating, but 
slow to yield to another’s dominion. 

Maida and Prue were so engrossed in planting some 
seeds in Maida’s own flower-bed that neither of them 
noticed a man coming up the winding path from the 
roadway. And the latter had stood for some minutes 
in admiring silence before Prue became conscious of 
some one near. 

She turned quickly and blushed over face and neck 
when her eyes met the man’s gaze, and then asked in a 
half-defiant tone: 


PRUE’S GxVRDENER 


181 


there anyone you wish to see?’’ 

The man lifted his hat politely, and asked: 

"Does Mr. Chesterfield live here?” 

"Yes,” answered Prue, evading the man’s eyes and 
tilting her head proudly. 

"Then I haven’t come to the wrong farm,” said the 
man, much satisfied. 

"No! This is Mr. Chesterfield’s estate.” Prue want- 
ed to laugh at her own proud assertion. She had never 
called the farm an estate ; but she intended putting this 
man in his place. 

"Ah ! Pardon me ! I should have said ^the wrong 
estate.’ ” And the least glimmer of a smile played 
about the man’s inscrutable eyes. 

Prue bit her lip. This man was making fun of her, 
and she would not have it. 

"Do you wish to see Mr. Chesterfield?” she inquired^ 
ignoring his remark. 

"Yes, Miss — Miss Chesterfield?” with the least lift- 
ing of his eyebrows. 

" Such impudence I” thought Prue. "It is none of 
his business who I am !” 

But she said aloud, the desire to dominate stirring 
her little nostrils as battle affects the nostrils of a war- 
horse : 

"Who are you?” 

"I am the new gardener. Miss.” 

"And your name?” impatiently. 

"Donald Jackson, at your service. Miss.” He said 


182 PRUE’S GARDENER 

it in such a way that it sounded like mockery to Prue’s 
proud soul. 

"Go around to the back door/^ returned Prue, haugh- 
tily. "Maria McCutcheon will make you a cup of tea.” 

"Maria McCutcheon?” inquired the young man. "I 
came to see Mr. Chesterfield.” 

And there was the least twinkle of amusement in his 
small hazel eyes. 

"Mr. Chesterfield is across the fields at present,” 
said Prue, again ignoring what she considered his im- 
pudence. 

^^Shall I go and find him?” suggested the man. 

But Prue was not going to yield an inch of her do- 
minion. 

"No!” she snapped imperiously. 

"I would like to see him now,” said he politely. 

"If you really came to see him you will have to 
wait,” replied Prue. 

And she turned a very defiant back on the man, 
equivalent to a dismissal. And Donald Jackson, after 
lifting his hat to Maida, who stood gazing in wonder, 
departed to Maria McCutcheon’s domains. 

"Nice sort of a man for Daddy to engage,” quoth 
Prue; and then petulantly. "I hate him! I know I 
shall never get on with that gardener. Never !” 

Maida looked up in astonishment. 

"Why, Prue dear, he never said anything to hurt 
you, did he? I like him already. I shall soon make 
friends with him.” 

"Oh, you can do as you please ! You are only a little 


PRUE’S GARDENER 183 

girl. But I am grown up and mistress here, and I won’t 
have that man about if I don’t want him” 

Then, seeing that the first part of her remarks had 
hurt Maida she fiung her arms impulsively around her 
sister’s neck. 

love you, Maida ! I didn’t mean to hurt you !” 

‘^I’m not hurt, Prue. But I think Donald has such 
kind eyes !” 

don’t ! I think they are horrid!” from Prue. 

^^Well ! He smiles in such a nice, friendly way !” 

“Friendly! Nice!” laughed Prue, curling her lip. 
“Very!” 

“And isn’t he a fine, big man, Prue?” 

“So are elephants ! And sometimes they trample on 
persons they don’t like.” 

“But he didn’t trample on 3 ^ou, Prue?” 

“Oh, no! lie didn’t do anything. He just tried to 

make fun of ” Prue stopped short, and dug the 

trowel into the earth with unnecessary vigor. 

“Fun of what?” asked Maida. 

“Nothing, dear. Don’t let us talk any more about 
him. I don’t like him, and there is the end of it.” 

“Try and like Donald, if father likes him, Prue. 
And because I know I shall like him.” 

Prue laughed outright at this fine reasoning. Her 
sweet temper returned, and with a merry smile she ran 
away in search of her father. 


184 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


CHAPTER n 

\ 

Some weeks had passed. Life at the Chesterfields 
had gone as usual, quietly and peacefully. 

Maida and the new gardener had become fast friends. 
In a thousand ingenious ways Donald had won Maida’s 
child-like admiration. He made a swing for her among 
the firs and oak trees on the knoll. He had planted 
some candytuft and ageratum in her little bed, which 
spelled out her name, ^^Maida,” greatly to her delight. 
He had also arranged a tiny hedge row to protect it 
from the chickens, which sometimes escaped from their 
inclosure and made depredations in the gardens. In 
one corner he had even built a tiny rookery, planting 
it with ferns; with columbine, whose red and purple 
bells rang for the fairies, and the trailing arbutus, 
portulacca, and another of four o'clock lilies, whose 
daily opening at a regular hour was a continuous mar- 
vel to Maida. And he had made a tiny rustic house 
for her dolls. This had taken time. Donald worked 
all day and only in spare hours could he plan for 
Maida's pleasure and carry it out. 

This was not the only way Donald had won Maida. 
To her his knowledge was wonderful — of the flowers 
and birds, the ferns and mosses she found in the woods 
and brought to him. And he had stories for every- 
thing. Fairies and gnomes peopled the woods and 
dwelt among the flowers. The stream, Silverdike, had 
its romances of mermaidens and mermen. Sylphs lin- 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


185 


gered in every shady nook. Nymphs sped on the wings 
of the wind. Indeed, Maida’s world was now alive 
with tiny, dainty, gossamer beings. 

Donald had a wonderful fund of tales; historical in- 
cidents, legends and stories of land and sea; a world 
of romance, which readily appealed to Maida’s childish 
imagination. 

All this time Prue had been studiously avoiding the 
new gardener. And Donald quietly kept out of her 
way, purposely or not, it mattered little to Prue. She 
had taken a violent dislike to him. 

She did not wonder at his interest in Maida. Her 
sister was a pretty child, with her sunny hair and 
bright face. Any laborer might well be pleased to in- 
terest himself in such a little fairy. And Prue would 
smile with great condescension when ‘Maida told her the 
kind things Donald did, and of the wonders and stories 
he related. 

^^You are a grateful little soull’^ she said one day 
to Maida. ^Ht is the goodness of your own heart that 
you see in Donald, and your own. bright imagination 
which pictures such wonders in the stories he relates V* 
Oh, no ! It is not I. Donald is a very wonderful 
gardener!’’ exclaimed Maida warmly. 

^'Wonderful, indeed! Yes, he is to little folks like 
you, Maida.” 

‘‘Don’t you think he is wonderful, Prue?’^ 

“I don’t think anything about him at all,” returned 
her elder sister coldly. 


186 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


"I don’t believe yon like him even yet !” said Maida, 
casting a woeful glance at Prudence. 

"Perhaps I don’t. But probably it is my own fault,” 
answered Prue, not wishing to hurt Maida’s feelings. 

"Oh, no! It is not your fault. It is no one’s fault, 
Pme.” 

"Or course not !” assented the proud girl, curling her 
lip. 

"But if you came and sat beside him on the grass 
when he is gardening, as I do, and listened to his tales, 
I know you would like him.” 

Prue laughed outright at this suggestion, picturing 
it in reality. 

"Possibly I would!” she exclaimed. 

"There is one rosebush he has more stories about 
than about any of the other flowers,” continued Maida. 

"Which rosebush is that?” asked her sister, listening 
indifferently. 

"That one over there!” And Maida pointed to s 
solitary rosebush, near a rustic seat on the knoll, in the 
shade of a clump of flr trees. 

This seat was Prue’s favorite resort when she wanted 
to be alone or to rest and dream. 

"Oh!” cried Prue. "Is that so?” 

"Yes! And I told him that bush was particularly 
yours. That you had it planted there. 

"Did you?” airily from Prue. 

"Indeed, I told him that I thought you had planted 
it yourself, Prue ! You did, didn’t you ?” 

"Yes! Aftd what said Sir Gardener?” 


PRUE’S GARDENER 187 

said it looked lonely.’^ And Maida looked 
troubled. 

"Did he, indeed? How clever of him to make that 
discovery!’^ Prue’s lip curled again. 

"And he said that it would be better for it if it had 
another rosebush beside it, a bigger and stronger rose- 
bush.” 

"How smart of the gardener !” interjected Prue, with 
a touch of sarcasm. 

"I didn’t see just why,” went on the little girl ; "but 
Donald knows everything about flowers, and of course 
he was right.” 

"Oh, of course !” Prue bit her lip and turned her face 
away. 

"Poor, lonely rosebush!” murmured Maida, with a 
puzzled expression. "I think Donald is right. Any- 
way, he knows best.” 

"Certainly, Donald’s knowledge is admirable!” ex- 
claimed Prue satirically. 

"I’m so glad you think so!” joyously cried the little 
girl, not comprehending the tone of her sister’s last 
remark. "Perhaps you will grow as fond of him as I 
am some day, and then you won’t think it’s my good- 
ness that makes Donald so clever and so kind.” 

Prudence dug her heel impatiently into the graveled 
walk. 

"Come, Maida! There’s father! Let us race for it!” 

Prudence was glad to change the subject; for it was 
only adding fuel to the fire of her dislike for the new 
gardener. 


188 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


Away flew the girls down the path to meet Mr. Ches- 
terfield. He had just returned from his daily survey 
of the farm. 

^^Well, children !” cried Mr. Chesterfield, stooping to 
kiss them. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, and 
Prudence was small beside him, to say nothing of 
Maida. 

^^Maida won the race!’’ said Prue, smiling and ap- 
parently breathless. 

^^Yes ! Because Prue never will let herself win when 
running with me,” returned the little sister reproach- 
fully. 

That’s right, Prue,” said her father, ^Hhe race is 
not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong. 
By the way, children, there are parcels at the express 
office. I want them to-day. All the men are busy. 
You might drive into Asburne and get them for me. 
Poor old Eosenante stumbled on a stone this morning 
and injured her leg. So you will have to take Wildfire 
in the phaeton. I can trust my Prue to manage that 
mettlesome horse in the phaeton?” 

Prue looked playfully indignant. 

^‘Manage him. Daddy ! I should think I could ! Wild- 
fire is spirited; but answers quickly to a gentle rein. 
Indeed, she runs steadier than Eosenante, and I would 
rather have her. Wildfire’s only fear is an autocar. 
But they so rarely pass this way, we can risk her all 
right. Even if we did meet one, I could control her.” 

Prudence Chesterfield never lacked in self-confidence. 

^‘Well, children, after lunch ask Donald to harness 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


189 


Wildfire. If I had any doubt of your being able to 
manage Wildfire in the phaeton, I would send Donald 
with you,” said Mr. Chesterfield doubtfully. 

Certainly not!” came the quick, decisive answer 
from Prue. 

Mr. Chesterfield knew his daughter too well to con- 
tradict or argue when she made a decision. 

And they walked on to the house, chatting gaily. 

Maida was delighted at the thought of spending an 
afternoon in Asburne. And Prue promised her an ice- 
cream at Eeineck’s, the real big candy shop. Then 
they would do some shopping and meet some friends. 
It would be so exciting 1 Maida’s eyes danced with joy. 

After lunch Maria McCutcheon went to Prue’s room 
and rapped at the door. 

^^Come in !” answered Prue’s sweet voice. 

‘^IPs only me,” said Maria. 

“Well, Maria! I suppose you want me to do some 
purchasing in Asburne for you ! A red rose for your 
new bonnet ? Or a red ribbon for your neck? Or do 
you ” 

“No, no. Miss !” interrupted Maria. “I want for 
nothing. Not me ! And if I did, I wouldn’t have ye 
go an’ buy ’em for me, behind that twice-crossed, bad- 
tempered Wildfire! No! Not for all the Christians 
selling red roses or anything in the world!” 

With this outburst, Maria’s face blazed as red as her 
arms had ever been in the washtub. 

Prue was tempted to laugh. But affection for her 
old nurse conquered her sense of humor. 


190 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


^^Dear Maria ! Your heart rules your head ! It ever 
did. And your fears were always founded on your love 
for me, and I always swept them over, as a wave washes 
a sand house away. I am like the leopard, Maria; I 
cannot change my spots, big or little!^’ 

“ Maybe, Miss Prue ! But I’ll talk about this some- 
how, as Pm feared for ye. Wildfire ’as never been in 
the phaeton before.” 

know it !” answered her mistress calmly. 

^‘An’ Dan says as how one of the boys as works 
across the fields says a great green auto business passed 
early this morning, an’ he knows sure it’s in Asbume. 
He says Wildfire won’t stand for it.” 

^^Never mind Dan! You never did. Isn’t it some- 
thing new for you to take Dan’s word? And to use it 
for me?” Prue looked solemn. 

Maria’s face was already the lobster shade, or it 
might have deepened in color. But her pent-up feel- 
ings had exhausted the blushing power and she was re- 
duced to her last shade of vermilion. 

^^Ye’ve downed me at that point. Miss Prue! But 
I still don’t think it safe for my two babies to run off 
alone into Asburne with that spitfire quadruped critter 
in the harness. Dan ’ud fall asleep over the dashboard 
if he went. Why not take Donald?” 

Prue’s brow clouded. 

Maria, Miss Prudence knows her own mind.” 

^^And Miss Prue’s mind was always to have her own 
way,” thought Maria, as she went away. ‘^And some 


PRUE’S GARDENER 191 

day Poor Minot Braid ! Alack ! Maybe I’m grow- 

ing as half-witted as Dan !” 

It was late in the afternoon when Prudence turned 
Wildfire’s head homeward from Asburne. 

Such a day of enjoyment they had spent ! 

When they left home the sun gleamed cheerily in the 
slpendor of an unclouded sky; a sky of shimmering 
azure. The air was rich with fragrance of grain field 
and clover meadow, and melodious with the twittering 
of birdland. The goldenrod and everlasting nodded by 
the roadside. And every now and then Pruence must 
needs stop Wildfire while Maida descended to gather 
them. Then Maida would run after a squirrel and the 
little frightened creature would race up a tree and 
scamper out on a bough to scold the pretty disturber 
of his peace. Or a butterfly would scintillate into the 
sunshine, and Maida would laugh with glee as she 
chased its irregular flutterings down the road. 

Even Prudence felt that she must give into the day 
when they drove past the woods. How tempting they 
were in their green shade and tangled aisles ! So Wild- 
fire was tethered to a stump while they went in search 
of the fairies who drank from the bluebells; who made 
platters of the daisies and turned the leaves of butter- 
cups into spoons, as Donald had told Maida so often. 
And Maida found the big toadstools which the fairies 
used for tables, and under which the gnomes slept. And 
what soft beds of moss for the fairies to dream on! 
Gray and green, spattered with the polished red berries 
of the wintergreen, and the purple cups of violets ! Vio- 


19 ^ 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


lets filled with dew, the nectar of the dainty gossamer 
people ! Wonderful ! 

It was all so like a story book ! And Maida had much 
to tell Prudence which Donald had told her. Indeed, 
their stay in the woods seemed all too short. And 
Prue listened because she loved Maida, so she said to 
herself. 

But fresh delights were in store for the little girl. 
Everyone in Asburne knew them. Nods and smiles 
and greetings met them at every turn. Maida came in 
for a large share of the townsfolks’ attention, which 
brought a flush of pleasure into her cheeks. 

They gave themselves up to the delights of their 
small shopping expedition, ending their happy after- 
noon at the ‘^real big” candy shop, and Maida had the 
promised ice cream. 

The sun was well on its downward path when the 
girls set out for home. Maida was tired ; Prudence also, 
but she would not acknowledge it. Shadows were fall- 
ing dark in the woods, and Maida peered sleepily into 
their density, to find the fairies’ ring. The squirrels 
had ceased their chatter. The birds had gone to bed; 
only the night-hawk and whip-poor-will broke the si- 
lence with their lonely cries. All nature seemed to 
know that the day was closing. The breeze had died 
down to a dreamy lull, fluttering among the branches 
and over the grain fields. 

As they were driving along, both tired and sleepy, 
neither noticed an autocar approaching from a cross- 
road. It was whirling at a good speed. An observer 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


m 


would have supposed the chauffeur was aiming to cross 
the road in front of the phaeton before the latter 
reached its path. On it came to the utter oblivion of 
the two tired girls. But they were near home now, and 
Wildfire was trotting there at her own gait, instinct 
guiding her more than Prue’s listless rein. On trotted 
Wildfire, oblivious too. 

Then the sound of soft whirring wheels caused her 
to cock her ears and listen. Nearer and nearer came 
the sound! Wildfire tossed her head, sniffed the air 
and looked about. 

On came the sound. And then suddenly the loud 
blast of a horn broke on the ears of the sleepy girls. 
And off bolted Wildfire. 

Prudence caught the reins. Maida screamed and 
clung to the phaeton. And away went Wildfire full 
speed down the road, striking fire with her flying heels 
and pulling at the bit with all her might. 

With all her tired strength Prudence tugged at the 
reins. But away raced Wildfire. And the chauffeur 
stopped the autocar as the phaeton, swaying from side 
to side, rattled past its ‘^bows’^ and disappeared round a 
curve of the road. 

Prudence kept her presence of mind. It was well, 
for Maida watched her, and did as she did. On sped 
Wildfire ! Prudence knew that every moment might 
mean death and yet, knowing that, her tired arms could 
scarce hold the terrified steed any longer. 

Another curve of the road, and they would be in 
sight of home. Would any one hear the noise of the 


194. 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


clattering hoofs? Could they help her? Would they 
see them? And would they realize that it was a run- 
away, and no high rate speed, such as Prue liked when 
Wildfire obeyed the reins, and with which she enjoyed 
startling everyone when she drove up the avenue? 

Prue’s pride and wilfulness rose before her as her 
thoughts flew with the horse’s heels. She felt it would 
be her fault if Maida was killed. And with that 
thought her spirit broke. Her arms trembled; her 
hands weakened. She heard Maida scream. A dark fig- 
ure rushed through the whirling world, and Prudence 
knew no more. 


CHAPTER III 

It was a month after Donald Jackson had stopped 
Wildfire in her giddy flight. The sudden checking of 
the horse had tipped the phaeton and thrown out both 
girls. Maida had fallen on a grassy mound. Ikcept 
for the fright and a few bruises she was all right. But 
Prue’s head had struck a stone and caused a slight con- 
cussion. She had been ill for days afterward. So ill 
that the home was quieter than ever, and its members 
went about on tip-toe. For a while they almost de- 
spaired of Prue’s life. 

During that time Donald looked nearly as white as 
the invalid. He moved among the flowers like a sick 
man. 

Day by day he inquired after Prudence, and picked 


PRUE’S GARDENER 195 

out the choicest and sweetest of the flowers to send to 
her room. 

Maida had noticed some American Beauties among 
them. She was certain that they were not out of 
Daddy’s garden. Donald must have got them in As- 
burne, although she had never seen American Beau- 
ties there. And of course Chicago was too far away. 
And of course that was ridiculous anyway. Donald 
was only a poor gardener. Maida laughed at herself. 
Wouldn’t Prue think she was silly ! But she wouldn’t 
tell her. 

. Prudence was too ill to notice flowers. And so the 
days wore on. 

But convalescence did come. Maria McCutcheon’s 
careful nursing, aided not a little by Maida’s cheerful- 
ness and her readiness to do all she could, soon had 
their effect on Prue. And as the invalid grew stronger 
Maida would sit by her bedside reading or chatting, or 
relating Donald’s wonderful tales. Sometimes she 
would make some little dainty with her own hands, 
which Maria had taught her; or she woud bring in 
some fruit. And nothing pleased her better than to 
bring Prudence one of Donald’s bouquets,” the Amer- 
ican Beauties mixed with the white roses from the bush 
on the knoll. 

One day Prudence noticed them. 

‘^Where did those American Beauties come from, 
Maida?” 

/‘I don’t know where they came from,” said Maida, 


106 


PRUE*S GARDENER 


fearing to let her sister know, as she remembered 
Pnie’s dislike of Donald in the past. 

gave them to me?” asked Prudence, turning 
suddenly on Maida. 

'^Donald!” breathed the child, ever so softly, her 
eyes filling with tears. 

Donald !” exclaimed Prudence, coldly. ^^He has lit- 
tle need to spend his small wages on me. He has more 
need to spend them on himself.'^^ 

‘^Are you offended with him, Prue?” 

^^No, dear! I am not. But Donald is only a gar- 
dener! A very ordinary man!” and a proud look 
crossed Prue’s face. 

Maida walked over to tlie window. And there was 
silence between them. It lasted for several minutes. 
And then Prudence heard a low sob, and another. 
Maida was crying. 

^^Come here, dearie!” said the elder sister gently. 

did not mean to be unkind. I am very grateful to 
Donald for saving our lives, and you may thank him 
from me for the American Beauties. It was very kind 
of him to buy them for me, and kind of him to inquire 
after me. But don’t expect too much of Sister Prue.” 

wish you would tell him all that yourself, Prue. 
He looks so white and tired. He works so hard you 
know. And I think it would do him good if you were 
kind to him.” 

Would it please you, Maida?’* 

^‘Yes, indeed,” answered the little girl, brightening. 
"Very much !” 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


197 


"Then I shall do so when I am up again,” said Pru- 
dence. And she lay back on the lounge with a deep 
sigh and slept. 

Some days later Prudence Chesterfield was able to 
come downstairs. 

One sunny afternoon in August she wandered into 
the fiower gardens. It was one of the quiet, dreamy 
days which come in the month of the harvest moon. 
Except for a light zephyr, which gently stirred the fo- 
liage of the oaks and firs on the knoll, and the nodding 
heads of the fiowers, the air was still. Only the occa- 
sional chirrup of a sleepy songster and the soft purling 
of Silverdike disturbed the drowsy silence. The tall 
hollyhocks near the porch bent their crimson heads to 
whisper together. Yellow asters, velvety dahlias, the 
blue and purple cornflowers, the variegated poppies and 
nasturtiums, the simple pink, the proud canna lilies, 
and a host of other flowers fluttered at the zephyr’s 
kiss, in an old-fashioned bed which surrounded the 
piazza in a rainbow flash of brilliant coloring. EVen 
the leaves of the stiff and stoic geranium, in its conven- 
tional borderline encircling a bed of citified propriety, 
drooped lazily in the August heat. 

In the orchard the apples fell with a soft thud. Be- 
yond the orchards, where the ruddy apple and purple 
plum held sway, the grasses of field and meadow bowed 
before the breeze in a glowing checkerboard of golden 
brown. Farther still were the green hills, patches of 
their woodlands already yellowing with the closing 


season. 


198 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


Prudence crossed the lawn to her favorite rustic 
seat on the knoll. She stood there a moment, plucked 
one of the white roses off her bush, and pinned it to 
her dress. Then she wandered to a clump of firs near 
by. She wanted to be alone; so she spread a rug and 
cushions on the grass in the center of a triangle of fir 
trees, and lay down to doze and dream. 

It was a day for dreaming, and Prudence closed her 
eyes. The figure of Donald rose before her, as he 
looked the first day they met; a tall, strong man, with 
hazel eyes that seemed to read her through and 
through. Prudence opened her eyes to rid herself of the 
vision, and her eyes lit on the white rose pinned to her 
dress. She threw it impatiently on the grass, and 
closed her eyes again. But Donald would come and 
sleep would not. Donald had been coming ever since 
that day when his eyes first gazed into hers. 

But Prudence Chesterfield was a proud girl. The 
idea of an ordinary gardener ! She had been angry for 
months. No one knew it. And Donald only saw a 
freezing exterior, which he might contemplate as he 
pleased. Wliy could not her thoughts be free of that 
gardener? He provoked her. 

And then Prudence thought of the way he had saved 
Maida and herself, and her heart melted. She was a 
brave girl, and admired courage and strength in others. 
She had to acknowledge that Donald had done a fine 
thing when he stopped frightened Wildfire. She could 
not say that any ordinary man might have done that; 


PRUE’S GARDENER 199 

because any ordinary man would not have stopped so 
mad a creature. And then Prudence sighed. 

Since the day he came she had frozen him, patronized 
him, condescended to him, and avoided him. And now 
that he had saved her life and Maida’s, Prudence felt 
that she could not continue treating him as she had 
done. What was she to do? And what about her 
promise to Maida? 

She thought she had been keeping out of his way 
lately. And yet, when she came to think about it she 
had not seen him once. Perchance it was he who was 
so studiously avoiding her ! And Prue’s cheeks flushed 
with unreasonable indignation. 

The anger was short-lived. For another thought en- 
tered her mind. And she bit her lip, as her habit was 
when anything annoyed and at the same time domi- 
nated her. The thought said to Prudence: 

‘^You have been avoiding him because you are afraid 
of him. Or fs it that you are afraid of yourself? You 
have been seeking him in this garden for days, and he 
is not here. Why? And because he is not here, you 
are angry. Why ?” 

Prudence tossed her head petulantly and said to her- 
self : 

^^Well, Sir Gardener ! This may or may not be ; but 
it matters not a whit for I am the affianced bride of 
Minot Braid, whom I don’t know, and have not seen for 
years !” And then Prudence laughed outright. 

Then she grew serious again. 

Donald was a brave, strong man. And his hazel eyes 


200 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


were really very fine, even if they were small. And if 
all Maida told her was true, Donald must know a gr^t 
deal. Her father found him pleasant and useful; 
Maida found him interesting and kind; and she found 
him brave. She began to feel that she knew Donald; 
indeed, had known him a long, long time What was 
she to say, and what would she do, when they met 
again ? 

Prudence picked up the white rose and studied it 
a while dreamily. It was a lovely rose. So sweet and 
fragrant ! And such a beautiful pure white ! Prudence 
laid her soft cheek against its dainty petals, and closed 
her eyes, sighing contentedly. 

Then Pride crept in and whispered : 

^^What would your proud father think of you? Don- 
ald is only an ordinary man! A gardener! He haa 
gentle manners, but ! A gardener!” 

Prudence opened her eyes quickly, and threw the 
white rose angrily into the firs, where it caught on the 
sharp green needles and hung head downward. 

"I am to be Minot Braid’s wife!” said she proudly. 

But Pride, like her late anger and laughter, soon 
subsided. Prudence buried her face in her hands, and 
the tears trickled slowly down her cheeks. 

So far her life had been smooth, clear and bright. 
She could not face this new life. She did not want to 
fight the battle; nor to solve the problem. The pres- 
ent was fight; the future — my story. 

Silently weeping Prudence was oblivious to the fact 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


201 


that Donald and Maida had come to the knoll. Maida 
was sitting on the rustic bench; Donald on the grass. 

^^Oh, Donald, how funny!’’ 

It was Maida’s voice, and a peal of laughter from 
Donald followed. 

Prudence sat up and peered through the firs. Evi- 
dently they had not seen her. The fir trees were 
thick, and they sat with their backs toward her. 

^^Tell me your new story of Prue’s rosebush, Don- 
ald 1’^ 

‘^What story. Miss Maida ?’^ 

‘‘^Why, Donald, you haven’t forgotten it, have you? 
You said yesterday, when you were trimming it, that 
you remembered a story about it, which you had in- 
tended telling me some weeks ago; but Wildfire’s run- 
away had put it out of your head.” 

^^Did I?” 

^^Yes, you did, Donald!” 

^^Oh, of course! I remember.” 

^^Now you’ll tell it to me, won’t you?” said Maida, 
pleadingly. 

Certainly, if you would care to hear it. I have 
some time to spare, so if you are patient I shall tell it.” 

^M’m patient !” laughed Maida; adding in a child-like 
tone of command, ^^Begin!” 

^^Once upon a time,” began Donald, ^Hhere was a 
great princess. She had large blue eyes and curly 
brown hair. Everyone loved her in her kingdom, for 
she was as good as she was pretty.” 


202 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


^^Lovely!” exclaimed Maida softly. ^^Just like my 
Pnie.” 

^^When she came of age she was to be married to a 
prince and made queen over his realm at the same 
time.” 

Splendid!” interjected Maida. 

^'She had only seen the Prince when she was a little 
girl,” continued Donald. 

^'Just my age?” interrupted Maida. 

‘^Yesl But her mother had promised her to him 
years ago.” 

^'Like my Prue and Minot Braid?” inquired Maida. 

Perhaps !” said Donald smiling. ^'But this princess 
was proud, and said nothing. Though I think she felt 
angry at her mother’s promise. One day in the autumn 
her page died, and the princess had to find a new one, 
for there was no one to take charge of the little cere- 
monies the page had to perform. It was a lovely aft- 
ernoon when the new page arrived! Such a glorious 
summer day!” 

"Why, Donald, you said it was autumn!” 

"Did I? Well, I meant May.” 

"Of course you know better than I do, Donald, but 
I thought May was a part of spring.” 

"Well,” said Donald, apologetically, "May was sum- 
mer time where this princess lived. Indeed, where she 
lived it was summer time all the time !” 

"How odd !” exclaimed Maidai 

"There now. Miss Maida, you must not interrupt 
again, or I shall forget everything.” 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


203 


All right! Go on, Donald P’ 

^^The sun was shining so brightly, all the flowers 
were out, and the birds were singing their sweetest. 
And the orchards were in blossom 

^‘Orchards like ours?” from Maida. 

‘^Exactly!” said Donald. ^^The page came into the 
princess’ garden and he thought her very pretty when 
he saw her. But being a poor page he was very humble 
and the princess ordered him off to his duties.’^ 

^^Why was he humble ?” asked Maida. 

^‘Because — because he couldn’t very well help it. He 
was only a page, and she was a princess.” 

"But I don’t understand it, if he was a good man,” 
protested Maida. 

"The princess knew nothing about him, and she was 
very wise,” said Donald. "She sent him to his work. 
He made a good page. At least, everyone thought so — 
but the princess.” 

"How funny of the princess, Donald!” 

"The page fell in love with the princess,” went on 
the gardener, ignoring Maida’s interruption. "And 
the princess had a white rosebush just like this one, so 
he gathered a rose every day for her. He did his work 
well, because he loved her. And the princess kept the 
page, although she showed him that she did not like 
him at all. Everyone else liked him but her. One 
day the princess went out for a drive, and the horses 
got frightened at a train and ran away very fast. The 
page was gathering a rose from the bush that day. 


204 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


when he heard the horses’ hoofs clattering along the 
road toward the castle/^ 

Just like Wildfire V’ cried Maida excitedly. 

^^He rushed out and caught the horses and stopped 
them.” 

^^How brave of him!” exclaimed Maida. 

^^No, it wasn’t very wonderful. The page was very 
strong, and fond of horses. He knew what to do, and 
how to manage them. Indeed, he had ridden on horses. 
The princess did not seem grateful for this, naturally. 
It was nothing. But the page did hope that she would 
like him a little bit after that. He fell more in love 
with her than'^ever, now that he had saved her. She 
had always been so cold to him. He could not endure 
the thought of her being that way again, after the run- 
away. So he decided to leave her.” Donald paused. 

^^Oh, is that all ? How horrid ! Why don’t they 
love each other and marry? I’m sure if she had been 
an American girl she would have. We are all equal 
here.” 

^^Wait!” said Donald. haven’t finished. ‘^The 
page left her. But the day drew near for the princess’ 
marriage, and wonderful preparations were made. The 
castle was decorated with flowers and flags. The gen- 
tlemen and ladies were gorgeously dressed in satins and 
silks. And the princess watched and watched; but she 
could not see him coming.” 

‘‘What kept him so long?” asked Maida. 

“He wasn’t sure if the princess loved him, any more 
than the page was,” returned Donald. 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


205 


^'Oh, dear! What did she do? How awful!” 

Donald sat quiet for a few minutes. And Prudence 
buried her face in her hands, among the fir trees. 

^‘Finish it, Donald ! Do ! Make the princess love 
him! Do!” 

Donald paused as if to add something; and then he 
went on : 

^^Well, the princess had another rosebush planted be- 
side hers; a bigger, stronger one; but not a prettier 
or daintier rosebush. The princess’ rosebush was the 
loveliest of all rosebushes. And every day, as long as 
they lived, they picked a rose from each bush. Their 
lives, their love, their white roses, lived and died to- 
gether. And so ends the story.” 

^‘That princess makes me think of my Prue. Only 
I don’t think his being a prince would have made her 
love him when she did not love a page.” 

^^Neither do I,” said Donald. ^^And that’s ]ust it! 
You see I ended it that way to please you. Do you 
think a princess would marry a page?” 

‘^Yes, if he were a brave man, and a kind man, like 
you, Donald. That oughtn’t to make any difference.” 

Donald laughed heartily at the child’s reasoning. 

From her corner among the firs Prudence had heard 
Donald’s story. She had listened willingly. What a 
musical baritone voice he had! 

Her interest had grown with the story. It seemed 
so real. She wished it had been true; only that the 
prince had been a gardener. But why didn’t the prin- 


206 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


cefis love the page in the first place, and not wait till 
he was a prince? 

Then came the thought of Minot Braid to trouble her 
mind. She did not know him, and did not love hinu 
Yet she was taking it for granted that they were to be 
married. How could he love her, whom he had never 
known ? Marry Minot Braid ! Such nonsense ! 

Prudence peeped through the branches at Donald, 
will not marry Minot Braid! No, indeed! He 
may be as rich as Croesus and as wise as Solomon; but 
I will not marry him ! I will marry whom I please. 

That is, if I can ; I mean if he loves me ; at least ” 

And Prudence stopped thinking. 

Prudence stopped for two reasons. One, because she 
could not think any longer. The other, her father was 
standing across the lawn, calling Donald to bring some 
tools lying near the fir trees. 

The girl gasped, then rose slowly to her feet. Don- 
ald was coming toward the trees and there was no es- 
cape for her. He did not know she was there, and 
she hoped he would not see her. She watched him 
coming. She saw him start. He had seen her; but 
Donald picked up the tools and returned to Mr. Ches- 
terfield. 

Behind the firs Prudence flushed, for their eyes had 
met. Shyly she reached out and lifted the white rose 
she had flung away. And this proud girl pinned it on 
again. 

just canT un’erstan’ whafs come over Miss Prue 



Prudence peeped through the branches at Donald. 



PRUE’S GARDENER 


m 


lately. She’s not a bit like ’erself/^ said Maria Mc- 
Cutcheon, turning over a pancake, as she stood by the 
fire, some months later. 

^^Don’t see it!” said Dan, taking his pipe out of his 
mouth, to contemplate his admirable spouse. 

^^Oh, ye never see anything! No one ’spects ye to!” 
returned Maria. 

“But if she ain’t ’erself, she ain’t nobody else. How- 
ever, I won’t say as I’m right. I won’t say that, Maria.” 

Dan puffed slowly, after giving forth this wise re- 
mark. 

“Stupid! Can’t ye see how she blushes every time 
the gardener goes near her!” 

“Meaning myself?” asked Dan with a grin. 

“Idiot! Ye know I mean Donald.” 

“Phew! Donald, eh?” exclaimed Dan in astonish- 
ment. 

“Yes, Sleephead! Donald! He’s a decent fellow; 
but his airs is too fine for gardening. I like ’im fine. 
But he’s either offended Miss Prue, or he’s presum- 
shious.” 

“Eh! What’s ^presumshious’ mean, Maria?” 

“It means that ye had the impert’ence to ask me to 
marry ye, when ye arn’t good enough for me !” 

“Ye needn’t ’ave said ^yes,’ Maria!” 

“But I did!” 

“Ye did !” assented Dan with a wink. 

“Wisht I hadn’t!” remarked Maria stormily. 

“Can’t say as I see ’ow that affecks Miss Prue. Un- 
less,” and here Dan laid down his pipe, a thing he 


208 PRUE’S GARDENER 

rarely did, and stared in amazement at Maria, ^^nnless 
ye’re jealous.” 

Maria turned away in disgust. 

'^Donald’s a fine gardener !” continued Ban. ^^Near 
as good as myself.” 

‘‘Humph!” from his cheerful spouse. 

“I just like Donald fine !” finished Dan, picking up 
his pipe again. 

“If you do,” called Donald, putting his head in at 
the kitchen door, “you will do him a favor. Please give 
Mr. Chesterfield this note when he comes in. Good-by, 
Maria!” 

“Ye’re not a-going, Donald?” exclaimed Maria in 
amazement. 

“I am, Maria.” 

“And why are ye going?” 

“I have to go.” Donald said this in a tone of such 
dignity and reserve that Maria asked no more ques- 
tions. 

“Good-bye, Dan!” he said, and was gone. 

Maria McCutcheon looked at Dan. 

“I told ye so !” 

But Dan nodded his head sagely and said : 

“I knew it was a-coming !” 

“ ’Ow did ye know ?” snapped Maria. 

“I heerd ’im saying good-by to Miss Maida yester- 
day, and saying as ’ow the page was a-going away, becos 
the princess, whoever she be, didn’t love ’im; she was 
colder’n ever, an’ o’ course a page was only a page, but 


PRUE’S GARDENER 209 

he might be a prince. But I won^t say as ’ow I’m right. 
I won’t say that!” 

^^I’m afeared he’s a bit too fine for gardening, with 
’em stories, Dan.” 

Dan winked and said nothing. 

Then a wonderful illumination took place in Maria’s 
mind, and she burst out: 

^^For all ’at we knows, Dan, he’s a Somebody! A 
rich Somebody, Dan!” 

And Dan McCutcheon did a thing he never did be- 
fore in his life. He turned his back on his astonished 
spouse and marched out of the kitchen, chuckling till 
his body shook; chuckling till he had to remove his 
pipe and stop smoking! 

Maria McCutcheon folded her arms, and looked 
stormily after him. 

won’t ask no questions, Mr. Dan. Not I! But 
ye’ve downed me this time, some’ow or ’uther!” 


CHAPTER IV 

Donald had been gone for some months. Long, 
lonely months for Prudence. His aunt was ill, so he 
had said. He had to leave suddenly, and had no time 
to say good-by, even to Miss Prudence. 

And all these past months Prudence had looked 
poorly. Indeed, Maria McCutcheon anxiously watched 
her ^^baby,” and shook her head doubtfully when she 


210 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


and Dan were alone. But Dan sat like a sphinx smo- 
king his pipe, and occasionally winking in an odd way 
at his spouse. He had grown silent since his chuck- 
ling spell. And Maria declared to a friendly gossip 
that she was sure Dan knew why Miss Pnie was so 
pale, and where Donald the gardener was to be found. 
Dan's absolute silence was uncanny. He had not gos- 
siped for days, and that was extraordinary. She was 
that positive he knew more than could he got out of 
him of this ^^gardener business.” Poor Miss Prue ! 

And then Mr. Chesterfeld observed how thin and 
white Prudence was growing. He sent for a doctor. 
And the doctor, wiser than the father, ordered a trip 
away for a change of scene. So it was planned to send 
Prue to New York on a visit to her relatives there. 

Ever since the day on the knoll that she had over- 
heard the story of the princess and the page, Donald's 
manner had changed toward her. He saw her among 
the firs that day in August, and he knew that she had 
understood him. Yes I His manner had changed ! He 
had grown even colder than she was, and avoided her 
so completely that sometimes she never saw him for 
days. He never gave her a chance to show him that she 
did care, and was sorry for the past. Donald simply 
developed into an iceberg. And then suddenly, one 
day in December, he went away; went away without a 
word of hope to Prudence! And left her to dream 
over the sad What-Might-Have-Been. 

She had visited in New York some weeks. Weeks 
filled with a round of pleasures; shopping, theaters. 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


211 


supper parties, concerts, automobiling in Central Park 
and along Riverside Drive, and the usual gayeties which 
people of fair means and time to spare can enjoy in 
New York during the winter time. The change had 
brightened her up a little ; but she still looked pale. 

Prudence Chesterfield had seen much that was gay 
and beautiful, interesting and exciting in New York. 
But it failed to bring back her old self. She had 
changed; changed in a different way from Donald, 
seemingly. 

Everywhere she looked for one pair of eyes, one face 
in the world. She studied the crowds of faces, as her 
uncle’s autocar sped down Fifth Avenue, or hurried 
over the frozen roads of Central Park. Hungrily she 
watched the thousands of busy beings in the shops and 
on the sidewalks. It was in vain. No Donald was to 
be seen anywhere. Hundreds, thousands of hazel eyes 
there were in New York. But the pair Prue most 
longed to see were not. 

There were days when the world seemed to whirl so 
giddily around her that she even wondered if ever a 
Donald had been in her life, and dreams of love and 
happiness. The past seemed so unreal, in the midst 
of all this clatter, and excitement and gayety; the 
knoll and the fir trees so far away from the brown- 
stone mansions of Fifth Avenue; the princess and the 
page almost ridiculous among these scurrying throngs 
of people. Fact and fancy incompatible. But Prue’s 
gardener was very much alive. The past existed, and 
no present would ever wipe it out. 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


Prudence knew that she could not expect to see Don- 
ald in New York; indeed, never to see him again. For 
he had said nothing of returning to the Chesterfields’ 
home. 

Nevertheless, Donald Jackson was very much alive. 
Dan did know more about the gardener business” than 
he intended relating to Maria. And some day Maria 
McCutcheon was to be downed” in a way she never ex- 
pected. 

One day an invitation came for Prudence and her 
cousins to a private dance in the Hotel Belmont. It 
was nearing the end of her visit in New York. In- 
deed, this was to be her last dance before she returned 
home. Prudence had made up her mind to bury the 
remembrance of Donald Jackson forever. And this 
was to be the last night of the existence of that sweet 
love memory. To-morrow, and all the to-morrows to 
come, she would try and live as if Donald had never 
been. She would marry Minot Braid, and make the 
best of it. She would never see Donald again. Why 
think of him? One must live on! 

Prudence looked sweet in her dainty white silk 
gown. Her blue eyes, larger for the thinness of her 
face, shone with a lustrous beauty to-night. The ready 
fiash seemed to have died out of them. A half-resigned 
expression played about the pretty mouth that was wont 
to be so mischievous and proud. 

Partners were not wanting, for Prue’s admirers were 
many. But she only half enjoyed the evening, and 
that in a listless fashion. 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


21S 


Half way through the program Prudence was sitting 
in a small Turkish room, where Oriental cushions and 
divans were plentiful and coffee was served on teak- 
wood tables. Her cousin had left her for another part- 
ner and she had begged him to leave her where it was 
quiet and she would be undisturbed. Oblivious of the 
music, which bade her dance and forget; oblivious of 
the lights and laughter, which told her to live in the 
present alone; oblivious of the fragrance and the fas- 
cination of the scented ballroom, the shimmering cos- 
tumes, the admiring eyes of the men — forgetful of all 
this wild, strange gayety, she was sitting alone, dream- 
ing of her sweet love memory, dreaming of Donald. 

On her lap lay a sheaf of white roses, strangely like 
those of her bush on the knoll. Her cousin had given 
them to her in the autocar on their way to the dance. 
And when she asked where they had come from he said 
he did not know. And there was no card, nor note at- 
tached. Even these had not lightened her heart. For 
to-night 'Hhe story” ended ! 

To-morrow she must think of Donald no more. She 
would go back to her home and to Minot Braid. 

She leaned back among the silken cushions, laid one 
arm across them, and buried her face on it. She did 
not weep; but more than one long, weary sigh broke 
from her proud lips. 

Thus Prudence was sighing and oblivious when a 
man entered the room. He hesitated, apparently. 

^^Pardon me! Do I interrupt you, Madam?” 

The girl sprang to her feet. 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


^^Donald!” she cried, in amazement, her proud self- 
command forsaking her. 

^'Miss Chesterfield!’’ he exclaimed, starting back- 
ward in apparent surprise. A thousand pardons ! I 
did not know you were in New York, and least of all 
at this dance How came you here?” 

Prudence leaned against the wall to steady herself. 
She felt giddy. 

am staying with an uncle of mine. And you?” 
she asked, suddenly aware of his fine evening dress and 
a small diamond ring which fiashed on his finger. 

am visiting also,” answered Donald, with an odd 
smile in his inscrutable hazel eyes. ‘^What will you 
have the page do? ^Obedience is the courtesy due to 
kings’ and princesses !” 

The girl blushed. Of his free will he was reverting 
to the past. 

^^You have always been The prince’ to me,” she said 
simply, a world of love looking out of her lustrous blue 
eyes. ‘^A princess asks no obedience of her prince 1” 

Donald laughed gaily. 

^^Then you will have another rosebush planted by 
your white rose on the knoll?” he questioned, looking 
down into her eyes for the truth. 

Prue’s eyes fell on the sheaf of white roses. 

^^Was it you who sent me these flowers to-night?” 

The odd smile came hack to his eyes again. 

‘‘Who did you think sent them?” 

“Well, I never thought yoU would! I did not think 
you ” she hesitated. 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


215 


"Cared?” he suggested. 

Prue nodded. 

"And you thought I had forgotten?” he asked, with 
a shade of reproach in his tone. 

"I did !” replied Prudence. 

"Well, they are yours. And you have accepted them, 
or you wouldn’t have them here now. Miss Prudence.” 

"You didn’t give me a chance to refuse them!” 
laughed Prue. "Did you?” 

"I didn’t intend that you should refuse,” he said, 
with his look of dominion, which had thrilled Prue the 
first day their eyes had met. He was conquering her. 

"Have your way!” laughed Prue. 

"I resolved that I would with you, months ago,” said 
Donald coolly. 

"Are you satisfied?” asked Prudence saucily. 

"Nearly!” from Donald. 

"You gorgon !” laughed the happy girl. "What more 
do you want?” 

"You haven’t answered my question yet,” from Don- 
ald resolutely. 

"What question, Sir Gardener?” 

"Are you going to have another rosebush planted by 
your white rose on the knoll?” 

"Yes, Donald!” she assented softly. "And their 
lives, their love, and their white roses, lived and died 
ttrgetheir’ !” 

They both laughed happily. 

" And so ends the story,’ ” finished Donald, impul- 
sively holding out his arms to her. 


216 


PRUE’S GARDENER 


the end yet, Donald !” And Prudence retreated. 

^^Pray, what is the end, little princess?-’ 

Prudence Chesterfield stood irresolute a moment and 
then asked humbly: 

“Who are you, Mr. Jackson?” 

Donald caught her impulsively in his arms and kissed 
her many times. And with a wonderfully sweet smile 
in his hazel eyes, he whispered softly: 

“I am Minot Braid!” 


FAITH 


CHAPTER I 

Girls,” said Betty, in tones of decision, ^^yon may 
say what you like about Faith, but one thing is certain, 
she is very different from the rest of us. In fact. Faith 
is distinct from us; rather above us, I think. How it 
is I can’t explain. But she is unlike us, and the differ- 
ence is a big one.” 

“I don’t see your point,” remarked a vulgar-looking, 
fair-haired girl, whose cheeks were well rouged, and 
whose fingers were covered with a showy supply of imi- 
tation rings. ^^She never dresses up as we do.” 

^^No !” answered Betty sharply. ^^She certainly does 
not, if dressing consists in a supply of boxes and bot- 
tles on a dressing-table, or their contents displayed on 
a show-case!” 

The vulgar girl. Sue by name, snapped a glance at 
the speaker, sniffed, and fiung off through the swing 
door into the restaurant. 

It was just between meals, or rather just before 
luncheon was to be served. The waitresses had col- 
lected in a room back of the restaurant, which led into 
217 


218 


FAITH 


the kitchen, and were awaiting the arrival of their 
usual, and sometimes unusual, customers. They had 
been discussing one of their members, who had lately 
joined their ranks in waiting on the numerous hungry 
visitors. 

^‘That’s rather hard on Sue, Betty said a dark- 
haired girl. ^^All the swells powder, and paint, and 
dye.” 

daresay, Della. They do powder, paint — ^yes, and 
they die ! Die as girls like Sue are not permitted to 
die. Sue’s is a living death.” 

'^Well ! What choice has a girl who has been brought 
up as Sue was? A sort of ^just growed’ !” asked a mild- 
eyed girl. Don’t be hard on her. Your life has been 
easier than hers.” 

^^Has it?” demanded Betty, turning on the speaker 
quickly. ^^What do you know of my life?” 

'^Oh, nothing. But I see you every day, and you 
seem happy. And you are good.” 

That’s just it. Bud! It is the way we all do. We 
judge others by a moment of seeing and hearing, when 
a whole life time has passed before that moment. A 
whole life time of which we are unaware; perchance 
as cold, and cruel, and bitter as we think it is sunny 
and warm.” 

Bud shrugged her shoulders and subsided. 

'^Don’t let us be the horrors about it, Betty ! If Sue 
has chosen the life we all know she has, so be it! 
Amen !” And Della laughed as- she held up a hand- 
glass and smoothed her curls. 


FAITH 


219 


Betty shuddered. ‘^Sue knows what is right and 
what is wrong, as well as you or I, or anyone else 
knows. And as far as I can see her life has been no 
harder than that of the rest of us ; for instance yours.^^ 

Della turned away. She busied herself folding some 
table napkins that had been piled on a table nearby, 
for she had nothing bright to say of her life. 

‘^Customer shouted some one through the swing 
doors. And Betty lifted a tray of forks, knives and 
spoons and vanished through the swing doors into the 
restaurant. 

“Betty always gets the last word,” said a red-haired 
girl, good-naturedly. 

“And Betty is nearly always right!” remarked 
Della with a sigh. 

“Always!” came in chorus from several other girls 
in the room; each with her own emphasis on the word, 
and each in her own tone, for Betty had entered each 
life and left it better for her presence. 

Then the girls hurried into the restaurant, for cus- 
tomers were beginning to arrive in shoals, and minutes 
cost money in the Boniface. 


CHAPTER II 

The waitress whom the girls had been discussing 
went by the name of Faith Winston. For some time 
she had been a waitress in the Boniface restaurant; yet 


220 


FAITH 


no one except, perhaps, Betty, knew her any better 
than the day she came. And not even Betty knew any- 
thing of her life history in the past. She came alone; 
no one knew where from ; and she returned as she came 
— no one cared; for no one has time enough to care, 
and no one has care enough to be interested in the life 
of a mere waitress in New York. Like so many candles 
they burn for so many moments. , And when the wick 
flares out the last bit of life, their place knows them 
no more. And so ends the candle. 

Faith Winston was a tall, slender girl. Not a trace 
of color tinged her pale olive cheeks. And she pos- 
sessed a pair of long, narrow gray eyes; strange eyes, 
that may have warmed in their time ; but which turned 
a cold gaze on the world around her. A pretty girl was 
Faith; but wherein particularly lay her prettiness one 
could not say. Unless it was that subtle something in 
expression which betrayed a glow of intense feeling be- 
neath the coldness; a warmth that would have made 
her beautiful had her life found expression. It was 
like a river — deep and full, flowing silently to the sea 
beneath a shield of ice. Faith always dressed in black, 
which, although unobtrusive in color, enhanced her 
grace and intensifled the pale olive of cheek and brow. 
The waves of her silky brown hair were parted in the 
center and gathered in a soft knot at the nape of her 
neck; a striking contrast to the ambitious pompadours 
of marcel waving and soaring height which stiffly en- 
circled the heads, or flopped in towzled elegance into 
the eyes of the other waitresses, a la mode. Faith 


FAITH 


moved about the restaurant with an air of being obliv- 
ious to her surroundings and unconscious of their 
meaning in her life. 

Faith may have studied the warfare of life and de- 
cided that her best course would be to stand alone, her 
natural self and fight or die alone. Or she may have 
thought to win her battles by the force of opposition 
and contrast. However it may have been, her general 
appearance, had she been a plain girl, would have been 
unnoticeable, but with her fine face and noble carriage 
Faith was the most striking figure in the Resturant 
Boniface. And, although she was utterly unconscious 
of the fact, the customers of the male sex had consid- 
erably increased since she had appeared. A thing of 
beauty is a joy forever, and a pretty woman is the goal 
of every man’s admiration. Yet Faith had no man 
friend ; not even an acquaintance among them ; and not 
from any unwillingness on their part. Faith’s manner 
toward everyone was a study in dignity and reserve. If 
she unbent in the least it was only in a slight degree to 
Betty. 

All the waitresses admired her ; not willingly. Faith’s 
prettiness was rare, like the golden-hued diamonds. 
Her personality was almost quixotic in its charm of 
separation and aloofness. And both were marked 
among the mediocre faces and characters of those 
around her. Jealousy is the choice tit-bit of ignorance. 
And Faith’s unknown life and silent beauty met with 
a full share of this delectable dainty. 

Betty alone of them all kept her thoughts of Faith 


FAITH 


to herself. Though she was shy in Faith’s presence, 
she betrayed a loyalty and zeal almost fierce among her 
companions when Faith was the subject discussed and 
criticized. But Betty was too much a favorite with 
the girls to be condemned for this. She was their best 
friend, and each girl had a story in her remembrance of 
Betty’s kindness and help in a time of need and dis- 
tress. Thus Betty became the peacemaker between 
Faith and the waitresses. Not one of them had cour- 
age to criticize or comment on Faith when she was pres- 
ent. They seemed to fear her. But Betty had to ex- 
pend all her energies in making peace when Faith was 
not there. They felt that she was made of finer and bet- 
ter material than themselves, so they disliked her 
heartily. Envy was the cross, and resentment the con- 
solation of their mediocrity. 

Each girl in the Boniface restaurant had her own 
little history. It may have been a quiet, insignificant 
one, fraught with its own sorrows, and lit with its 
small pleasures. Or it may have been an exciting one 
out in the world in the glare of noonday. But it was 
a history of life ; every-day life. And it interested Bet- 
ty. Betty had a great heart, although she was unaware 
of it. Some of the girls had lives of duty to live — 
duty at home; duty at the Eestaurant Boniface. Many 
of their evenings were held in the reins of duty. Tho 
ties of sick ones, parents, or children, bound them in 
the chains of immutable dut}^ hand and foot, every 
day, year in and year out. Others lived for pleasure, 
having a good time and lots of fun. They spent their 


FAITH 


223 


little all on dress and theaters. They gadded here 
and there, wherever the gay pennons of pleasure flut- 
tered before their eyes. Others still (and these were 
the girls whose lives cruelly pained Betty) died in liv- 
ing. They destroyed the womanly rights of their exist- 
ence, sacriflced their names, their characters, their 
lives, to the passions of dress, money, admiration, and 
to the fury of a life of excitement — ‘Tast^’ the world 
calls them. Betty loved them all. But she loved Faith 
above them all, and kept her love sacred. 

There was a flneness in Betty’s heart ; the fineness of 
real and deep sympathy. Betty penetratd Faith’s char- 
acter and her thoughts to a certain extent by means of 
this rare and fine sympathy. And though Faith sel- 
dom spoke to any of the girls, what she said to Betty 
was worth listening to. So thought Betty. And she 
never forgot any of her occasional short conversations 
with her beloved Faith. 

With the arrival of Faith Winston at the Restaurant 
Boniface a trial had come to Betty. She was fond of 
Sue, and Sue’s life was all wrong. And the coming of 
Faith had made matters worse. The greatest opposi- 
tion in the restaurant was between these two ; an oppo- 
sition that was physical as well as mental. Sue was a 
fair-haired, vulgar, selfish girl; Jealous, hard-hearted 
and ignorant; a contrast in every way to the refined 
and gentle Faith. Like all ignorant people, she was Just 
as free with her opinions and criticisms of other per- 
sons as Faith was wise, merciful and silent. 

During meal hours, none of the waitresses had time 


FAITH 


224 

to notice each other, or the manners of male customers. 
Nevertheless they were all aware that Faith was the 
center of admiration, and courtesies were paid her 
which were never rendered to themselves. Faith was 
oblivious. Or if she did notice it she did not care, and 
did not encourage it. Unasked she was receiving the 
very things — admiration and attention — that Sue 
longed for, and the later hated her for it. Faith 
avoided Sue more than any of the waitresses in the 
Restaurant Boniface because she felt the hatred and 
pitied it sincerely. 

Indeed, Faith shrank from contact with the vulgar 
girl as one dreads a snake. No one noticed it but 
Betty. As she watched she became convinced that it 
was not Sue herself that made Faith Winston turn 
away; but some stronger motive in Faith’s life. Prob- 
ably some feeling which had its foundation in the past ; 
a memory which influenced her manners, her words and 
her actions in the Restaurant Boniface. 

One day Sue was more than ordinarily rude to Faith. 
An admirer of hers had been particularly polite and 
pleasant to the unconscious girl. Sue, with the weak- 
ness of her nature, grew angry, then revengeful. She 
blustered into Faith and brushed against her, with 
every chance in waiting that brought them near each 
other. Betty had been quietly observing how things 
were going. As Sue never once looked in her direction 
she had no way of signaling a warning to her or trying 
to prevent her marked and offensive rudeness. 

Presently Faith came in with a tray of soup plates. 


FAITH 




well filled. Sue was crossing the room from a side 
table, where she had gathered up some spoons and 
table napkins. As she saw Faith Winston coming, she 
deliberately crossed behind her and knocked her elbow. 
Down fell the tray with a crash The soup splashed 
over a table near by as the plates struck it in their 
fall, and it spilled over the front of Faith’s skirt. 

Betty hurried to the rescue. Before she reached the 
spot, Sue’s admirer was down on his knees wiping off 
the soiled dress with his table napkin. And Sue looked 
at him with rage and dismay. 

Thank you,” said Faith, quietly, looking as calm 
and self-possessed as usual, 

^^No thanks, please!” returned the young man, 
glancing up with a smile. “It’s a pleasure to serve a 
lady like you.” 

Faith smiled graciously in return, but said nothing. 

When she had finished Betty slipped her arm through 
Faith’s, a familiarity she had never used before, and 
they retired to the cloak-room together. A pan of 
warm water was soon made ready and Betty silently set 
to work to clean the dress as best she could. 

“I’m afraid it’s going to stain,” she remarked, gently. 

“Nevermind! It does not matter,” answered Faith. 
Something in the tone of her voice made Betty glance 
up. Faith’s eyes were filled with tears. Betty bent 
her head lower over the skirt and rubbed it till it had 
some appearance of dryness. 

“I don’t want to be rude; but is it the only one you 


226 FAITH 

have?^’ inquired Betty softly, hesitatingly, not wishing 
to offend her friend. 

“No; I have other clothes, but I cannot — I mean to 
say, I do not wear them. That is all right — thanks. 
It does not need any more rubbing.’^ And she stooped 
and ran her hand over the front of her dress. 

Sue passed the door at that moment. And Betty 
called to her, turning gravely around to face her. 

“Well! What do you want?” she snapped sulkily. 

“You have been very rude to Miss Winston. Her 
dress is spoiled. You owe her an apology, and you 
have not even said you were sorry!” Betty did not 
look at her as she spoke. She was giving the skirt a 
final rub. 

“And neither I am !” Sue stopped short, for Faith 
glanced up from her dress, and fixed her long gray eyes 
full upon her with a look of pity, and perhaps a tiny 
touch of contempt. “I mean to say,” stuttered the girl, 
abashed, “I s’pose I am sorry.” 

“Only suppose!” exclaimed Betty, with a little flash 
of anger. “Don’t you mean what you say?” 

“No!” cried Sue doggedly. 

For a moment no one spoke in the cloak-room. 
Neither Faith nor Betty moved their eyes from her 
face, and she dropped her eyes shamefacedly before 
them ; but the stubborn expression only hardened. 

“Say no more! It is nothing.” And Faith turned 
to Betty. “I feel sorry for her. Indeed, I pity her! 
She is a child yet; not in innocence, but in ignorance. 
And ignorance is the more helpless of the two; its 


FAITH 


m 

helplessness is the more pitiful. The harvest of such 
sowing is bitter; but it may open her eyes and bring 
her knowledge, as it has done for others since the 
world began. 

don’t want to know !” said Sue obstinately. 

Perhaps you already know. In any case you know 
the way of right; and the end of wrong. The present 
is yours, and you live it as you please. But knowl- 
edge, such as I mean, will come with the future, and 
its fruit will be bitter to taste. God help you when it 
does come ! For the consequences of lives such as yours 
are terrible — terrible!^^ And an expression of intense 
pain and horror crossed Faith’s face. 

Hearts like Sue’s are not so hardened in wrong-doing 
at her age as they usually are in later years. And 
Faith’s words and the suffering which flashed into her 
face made their impression on the weak girl. She 
stood irresolutely in the doorway and murmured: ^M’m 
sorry I did what I did ; but I couldn’t help it. That is, 
I couldn’t help my feelings.” 

Sue made an attempt at a smile, and then awkwardly 
left the room, and went back into the restaurant. 

^^How hopeless it is to help girls like that!” sighed 
Betty. ‘‘Their feelings guide them in everjflhing. It 
seems impossible to appeal to their reason or sense; 
if they have any! I’ve tried so often to reason with 
that poor, wayward girl!” 

“Yes, it does seem hopeless. The impulse of a mo- 
ment will carry them wheresoever it leads. Their bet- 
ter feelings come and go impulsively, less and less fre- 


FAITH 


^28 

quently as tlie years roll onward; and as they continue 
in the way they have chosen. Sue was touched just 
now, and it was her better self. But will it last?” 
And Faith sighed. 

Betty shook her head sadly. “God knows! With 
^ome of us it takes more than human aid to help us 
out of a tight comer, or out of the mire. Human be- 
ings may help us some; but if you haven’t got a bit 
of God in your heart you’re nowhere. That’s what I’ve 
experienced, and I guess I’m right.” 

“Poor Sue! She has done her worst to me to-day, 
and also her best. Perchance she may improve after 
all. Who knows? Little seeds of self-forgetfulness 
have a wonderful way of budding out into good trees.” 
And Faith smiled hopefully as they returned to the 
restaurant. 


CHAPTER III 

Restaurant life in a big city is a busy one. The only 
monotony lies in the regular customers, who appear 
every day in the three hundred and sixty-five days of 
the year, and an extra day in leap year. But there are 
ever new faces coming; strangers from foreign lands, 
native tourists, and the miscellaneous drop-ins, who 
drop in and out of any good restaurant they happen to 
be near at meal time. 

There are restaurants and restaurants in New York. 
Some are for entertainment and amusement^ aglow 


FAITH 


229 


with lights and palms, where music and song soothe the 
wearied senses of the sipper of straws, as he leans over 
his tall glass, or wreathes his head in the pale smoke 
of a cigar. There are restaurants for shoppers, redo- 
lent of beefsteak, sour vinegar and the frying pan; 
noisy with the ceaseless clatter of dishes and the chat- 
ter of many tongues, and twanging with the scrapings 
and discords of a would-be orchestra. There are res- 
taurants for cheapness, where bread and beef are served 
in layers, as bricks are laid on a wall ; simple and whole- 
some, but rather hard of digestion. And there is the 
restaurant where afternoon tea is daintily enjoyed; 
where quiet is possible from the thronged and shouting 
streets, and where the talk is refined and the tea 
choice. Then there are many other restaurants; some 
for specialties ; some for meeting places ; some for high 
prices, and others for the man with the spare dime. 
And best of all there is the restaurant where a solid, 
round meal can be got for a square price, and such was 
the Boniface Eestaurant. 

The Boniface was neither expensive nor cheap, but 
the meals were excellent and reasonable. It was not 
an elaborately decorated restaurant; but it was not 
plain; and best of all, it was clean and well kept, and 
good for a half hour’s rest. The walls were papered in 
dark green. Mirrors paneled here and there above a 
leather dado reflected the groups of electric lights, and 
brightened the general effect. A weathered oak buffet 
in one corner glittered with an array of variously col- 
ored liquor glasses. On a balcony opposite and sur- 


230 


FAITH 


rounded with palms and ferns an orchestra of mediocre 
ability discoursed the whims of the hour, whether clas- 
sical or otherwise, three times a day. A row of pillars 
in the center of the room added a touch of dignity to 
the restaurant, despite the fact that they were painted 
to represent white marble, and imposed politely on 
country customers. 

It was Easter-time. New York was filled with vis- 
itors and violets. The flowing feathers and gay flow- 
ers of the hopeful Easter hat darted along with every 
carriage. The world of woman was abroad in its gayest 
Easter attire. The shops were like hen-roosts, with 
eggs of all sizes and colors. On all the favorite prom- 
enades, crowds of people were passing to and fro. And 
the sidewalks were aglow with all the hues of the rain- 
bow, revealed in spring suits. At the corners of the 
streets boys and men sold roses of every shade, lilies- 
of the valley, daffodils, narcissus, tulips, fresias, and 
violets. And the vivid, fresh green grass of Central 
Park seemed all the more vivid for the lack of foliage 
on the trees and bushes. 

The Boniface restaurant was doing an excellent 
business. Crowds of customers were pouring in. The 
waitresses were as busy as bees in a hive. The orches- 
tra was excelling itself in variations on old airs, and 
in the chances of an up-to-date Deux-temps. It had 
just dipped into the latest comic opera when a gentle- 
man entered the restaurant. No one noticed him. All 
the tables were filled, and everyone in a hurry, rushing 
orders and trays. 


FAITH 


231 


Several persons arose from Faith Winston’s table. 
The manager, noticing them, touched the gentleman on 
the arm and led him to her table. 

Faith was busying herself changing the cloth, laying 
down spoons, forks and knives, folding a table napkin 
and setting a glass of iced water on the table. She 
had just laid the decanter down when she observed the 
gentleman start as he hung his coat and hat on some 
brass pegs by a mirror. She lifted her head. His 
back was toward her, but he was staring amazedly into 
the mirror at her reflection just behind his. Faith 
saw, and laid the decanter down with a crash that 
would have drawn a shoal of eyes in her direction had 
not the orchestra reached the last chorus in the comic 
opera it was playing. And the chatter of a hundred 
customers or more dulled the sound of the glass. 

The man turned around and faced her, a look of 
passionate admiration burning in his brown eyes. Faith 
Winston steadied herself by the table and answered his 
expression with one of icy coldness. He bent his brows 
and then smiled in recognition. 

^^So this is where Madam has hidden herself !” he ex- 
claimed, politely. 

Hidden herself! Do you call this hiding?” And 
she glanced around the crowded room carelessly as she 
nervously fingered the pencil and pad. 

^'Oh, but you are wise. Madam! ’Tis well to hide 
where people least expect to find you!” he remarked, 
seating himself at the table. 

aip not hiding. Haven’t you found me here, and 


252 


FAITH 


now, Mr. Gaspard?” she asked indifferently, handing 
him the bill of fare. 

^^That is to-day. What of yesterday?’^ he queried, 
with a half-sneer. 

^^Your questions are not courtesies,” said Faith, icily. 

‘‘Nor are the answers kind !” And Pierre Gaspard 
cast a glance over the bill of fare. 

“Could you not sit down with me?” he continued. 
“And let someone else serve and wait upon me?” 

He did not lift his eyes from the card; but Faith 
felt the satire and dug her nails into her palms, answer- 
ing quietly the while: 

“It is against the rules.” 

“The rules of etiquette?” came his sarcastic query. 

“What will you have?” demanded Faith in a low 
tone, ignoring his question. “Give me your order, 
please. The manager is watching us.” 

“And does the manager of this restaurant rule your 
life?” 

Faith made no answer. 

“Ah, well! Here’s my order!” And he took the 
pad from her and wrote it down himself. “I shall 
drink to your happiness if you will bring me some 
wine.” And he pointed to an expensive wine on the 
list. 

Faith hurried away. Her nerves had received a se- 
vere shock. Her cheeks were flushed, as they rarely 
were, and her eyes sparkled with resentment and de- 
fiance. She ran into the cloak-room and sat down in 
a chair, swaying herself to and fro and clinching and 


FAITH 


233 


unclinching her hands to gain control over herself. 
When she had quieted she got up and returned with 
the first part of Pierre’s order. 

She set it down before him, arranged the dishes, and 
left him. Betty was standing near the table; so Pierre 
Gaspard dared not address her again as he had done. 
When she brought in his last course, Betty was serving 
at another table. And as Faith filled his glass with 
more iced water he took hold of her wrist, when no 
one was observing. 

^Tisten, Faith! — Is that your name here? — I want 
to see you. I must see you. Meet me to-night at Kay- 
mor’s restaurant, seven o’clock sharp 1” 
cannot!” gasped she. 

"You must ! Or the manager will know the reason 
why!” And he darted a cruel glance at her. 

"Pity me!” she whispered. "Mr. Gaspard ” 

"I am Pierre!” he interrupted, with a smile half- 
pleading, half-satirical. 

"Pierre, pity me! Leave me in peace in this place. 
This peace, the only peace I have known for years! 
Go your way, Pierre, and let me go mine !” 

"Never! Now that I have found you, I will keep 
you. Losers seekers, finders keepers! You shall not 
escape me !” And he arose and slipped on his coat and 
hat — easily, carelessly, and smilingly. 

Poor Faith! Her lids dropped till her eyes closed, 
for the room seemed to be rocking under her feet and 
whirling in the maddest maze. 


FAITH 


^^Are you ill. Miss Winston?’’ Betty was at her 
elbow, and Pierre was gone. 

‘^Yesl I feel very ill. I must go home. Home!” 
And at the word she shuddered. 

^'May I go with you? I might be able to help you. 
I would so like to help you,” said Betty gently. 

^^No! No, thanks, Betty! I shall be all right to- 
morrow. It is very kind of you ; but I am better alone.” 
And Faith made an excuse to the manager and left, 
looking more pale than usual, and very tired. 

Betty looked after her in wonderment and pity as 
the door of the Kestaurant Boniface closed behind her 
slender figure and sad face. 

^^What a strange, weird world we live in!” she 
thought. ‘^People and things are all kind of dreams 
and mysteries. One never knows just how things are 
going to happen; or what will happen next; or any- 
thing. It’s a good thing we don’t live in this world 
forever !” 


CHAPTER IV 

At seven o’clock sharp Faith met Pierre Gaspard at 
Raymor’s restaurant. Raymor’s was a restaurant of 
the elite. But the patronage of the elite is no stand- 
ard by which to judge the mental or moral tone of any 
restaurant in New York, or anywhere else. The great 
and the gay frequented Raymor’s. Diamonds and sham 


FAITH 


235 


brilliants shone side by side in the general brilliance. 
And the world rolled on easily and smiled at Raymor’s. 

The decorations of Eaymor’s were as elaborate as 
their prices. The walls of the main room were covered 
with mirrors, and between the mirrors were frescoes 
of beautiful figures, representing the seasons, fiowers 
and music. Frescoes decorated the ceiling with rosy 
Cupids and downy clouds. And gilded stucco work in 
rose reliefs outlined mirror and fresco. A thick, soft 
rose carpet covered the fioor in harmony with the tone 
color of the room. Gilt tables inlaid with marble and 
gilt chairs, cushioned with pink plush, were placed here 
and there among the palms and ferns. Huge vases of 
pink and white roses were scattered through the room, 
giving the effect of a garden of fiowers and greenery. 
Pink shades sheltered the quaint electric lamps on 
each table. And the clusters suspended from the ceil- 
ing were encased in globes of so dark a pink that the 
light fell with a soft sunset glow over the room. White 
and pink carnations and lilies-of-the-valley, entwined 
with smilax, stood in pretty cut-glass vases on every 
table. And in the center of the room a fountain played, 
the water trickling over a mass of nile-green crystals, 
representing icicles. And around the edge of its mar- 
ble basin was a fringe of mosses, thick with violets, 
and fioating on the water’s surface were white and pink 
water lilies. The fountain was lit up with hidden elec- 
tric lights. It was very gay and gaudy and gorgeous, 
and very New York. 

Had the waitresses of the Boniface seen Faith Win- 


236 


FAITH 


ston at the moment she entered this room with Pierre 
Gaspard they would not have recognized her for the 
same person they had known. She was in an evening 
costume of palest violet ; a chain of amethysts, dark and 
lustrous, encircled her neck, and a large brooch of 
pearls and diamonds fastened a bertha of old lace at 
her breast. She hardly seemed Faith Winston as she 
glided across the room in a long lace cloak and feather 
boa. How surprised Betty would have been ! 

She looked like a queen and walked like one. Pierre 
thought her more beautiful than ever. Every line of 
her graceful form and refined features, every pose of 
her head, every light that flashed in her eyes was rav- 
ishing to him, more so now than ever it had been in 
the past. The circumstances of their present meeting 
cast a glamor of mystery and romance around them. 
To be alone with Faith under such conditions was ex- 
citing and rapturous in the extreme. Pierre loved her 
beauty. But he did not know Faith, for he had no 
depths in himself to sound the deeps of another heart. 

They crossed the room to a corner table where a 
sheltering palm partly hid them from the rest of the 
room. A huge bouquet of American Beauty roses oc- 
cupied the center of the table, and were tied with 
streamers of palest pink ribbon. A little card lay near 
the vase, and on it was written 

‘‘To the one woman of my life ! 

Whom 1 hope some dear day to make my wife !” 


FAITH 


m 


The room was very warm. But Faith shivered as 
Pierre slipped her cloak off her fair shoulders with a 
lingering touch. 

‘^Are you cold, dear?” he asked, laying his hand 
softly on her shoulder. 

‘^No! It is very warm here!’’ And she removed 
his hand from her shoulder and sat down near the win- 
dow that faced Broadway. 

‘^You are very quiet to-night, and very cold in spite 
of the summer warmth here,” remarked Pierre care- 
lessly, eyeing her admiringly. 

^^To you have I not been usually so?” she inquired, 
icily. 

^^May be! But you have wit and wisdom, and can 
become enthusiastic and warm when you please,” re- 
turned Pierre. 

^^And I please to treat you as I have always done. 
And I suppose my wit is to be cold and my wisdom 
to be quiet.” And Faith twisted the streamers of 
ribbon into a knot. 

Pierre smiled. ^^You are almost perfect! Btit one 
thing, one quality, one virtue if you like, is wanting, 
or rather, lacking.” 

^‘And that is?” she queried indifferently, picking up 
a menu card, written for the occasion. 

^^Love !” And Pierre’s eyes burned into hers. But 
she turned her head away and gazed out of the win- 
dow, saying coolly: 

don’t understand you, Mr. Gaspard. I loved my 
husband.” 


238 


FAITH 


^‘You mean you thought you loved him! And you 
may well say loved, for it is past and gone.” 

Faith said nothing. But the pink flesh of her palms 
turned red from the force with which her nails sank 
into them. Pierre continued insistently and cruelly. 

^Ht was a dream, Faith! The dream of a day! 
Sweet with sunshine and beauty; but it faded, faded 
ere the day closed! As the vapors of morning vanish 
before the sun, so the mystery died. And the fire that 
destroyed the mystery was a violent spirit, and it 
burned the ethereal, the ideal love, and left you the 
ashes — death !” 

She was silent a moment and then said quietly, ^^My 
husband is not dead.” 

^^No! But he were better so!” exclaimed Pierre. 

Faith’s eyes flashed fire as she answered: ^^This is 
not a fitting subject for discussion between you and I.” 

^^And yet it is the one nearest your heart, and most 
in your ^thoughts!” said Pierre, leaning across the 
table, and searching her eyes. 

^^When did you find that you were clairvoyant?” she 
asked coolly. 

^^And when did you cease to love freedom?” he par- 
ried. 

This counter thrust told on her, for she closed her 
eyes a moment and then leaned her head on the palm 
of her hand. 

Pierre continued speaking: ^^Your husband has not 
divorced you because you have left him; nor can you 
get a separation. Do you know that he has offered a 


FAITH 


289 


large reward for information of your whereabouts? 
Your beauty is dear to him. He is willing to pay any 
price for its return!” 

Faith arose quickly. "You insult me! How dare 
you ! I do not believe it ! It cannot be true ! I will 
leave you this instant!” 

“Read this!” And Pierre handed her a newspaper 
cutting. Faith held out an unsteady hand and clutched 
it. Slowly she read it, and slowly, but surely a cloud 
of indignation, resentment, and defiance gathered in 
her face. The color rose in her cheeks, while her eye- 
lids dropped till the eyes seemed to contract. For 
Faith was being tempted in her weakest moments; 
when anger filled her heart at her husband’s indignity 
and cruelty to herself. She laid the cutting on the 
table with an almost nerveless hand, and Pierre slipped 
it into his pocket. 

"Will you leave me now?” he inquired with a half- 
smile. 

Faith sat down slowly and dropped her head in her 
hands wretchedly. 

"Then you believe it?” asked Pierre. 

"As it is written,” answered she wearily. 

Pierre reached across the table and clasped one of 
her hands. Faith withdrew it and laid it on the win- 
dowsill, lifting her head haughtily. 

"You are unhappy!” continued her tormentor. 

"Am I?” was the listless response. 

"You know you are!” persisted Pierre. 


^40 


FAITH 


^^Thafs a question!” returned she, tearing a rose 
to pieces. 

^'You were once very happy,” continued the man, 
taking a cruel sort of pleasure out of worrying his 
lovely victim, as a street cur would revel in the killing 
of a rare Persian cat. 

"And that is problematical,” said Faith slowly. 

Pierre lit a cigar. 

"You are not just like other girls I have known,” 
he meditated, as if to be unlike the others of her sex 
was akin to insanity or to something essentially crim- 
inal. 

Faith piled the torn rose leaves together before she 
answered with the least curl of her lip: "That is very 
unfortunate !” 

"Why?’^ he queried. 

"Familiarity breeds contempt,” she said, ignoring 
his remark. "You and I have not yet arrived at that 
stage in our duel. I draw a fine line between my pres- 
ent feelings and that. But if, with your weapon, that 
slip of paper, you drive me into a corner, I will cross 
the line, your rubicon, and the end will be a tragedy.” 

Pierre continued his smoking in silence and his com- 
panion listlessly watched the passers-by and the ever- 
hurrying traffic of Broadway. 

Among the palms at one end of the room an or- 
chestra was playing a symphony on love, its war, and 
its weariness. 

Presently Pierre laid down his cigar, remarking 
quietly : 


FAITH 


241 


^Tt is the fashion just now to serve coffee in the 
Turkish rooms upstairs. Let us go there. We can 
talk in peace, and it is cooler.’’ 

Faith arose mechanically, while Pierre gathered up 
her cloak and the roses, and followed her out of the 
room. 

"You have never thanked me for these,” he said, 
holding the roses toward her. 

But Faith Winston’s hand was busy with her ame- 
thyst bracelet. 

"Why should I ?” she asked carelessly. 

"Common courtesy,” he returned. 

"My courtesy is uncommon,” remarked she, still 
busy with her bracelet, and not offering to take the 
flowers, "it comes from the heart and is natural. You 
compelled me here ; how can I thank you for a present 
of roses? It is a part of the force which brought me 
here, and makes you my enemy.” 

Pierre shook his head. "Not your enemy; but some- 
thing you need — a lover.” 

"The worst enemy of a married woman !” exclaimed 
Faith defiantly, as they entered one of the Oriental 
rooms. 

The rooms opened into one another; but were cur- 
tained off with Oriental draperies ; each room in a dif- 
ferent color. 

Pierre chose a green room. 

"It makes a lovely background for your beauty. 
Faith,” he said admiringly. "You are like a violet in a 
bed of moss here.” 


242 FAITH 

She laughed carelessly. pale violet! If I am a 
violet, what are you?’’ 

‘^A toad-stool! I spoil the pretty effect of the pic- 
ture.^’ And he stood in the doorway, thoroughly en- 
joying the beauty of the woman near him. 

Colored lamps in red and green of eastern work- 
manship softened the light, leaving strange shadows 
to lurk in the corners. The walls were hung in Oriental 
draperies of green and gold. A silken Persian rug 
covered the floor, a maze of colors, weaving an intri- 
cate pattern full of the mysticism of the Orient. A 
teak-wood table, a lounge with a wilderness of soft 
cushions, an easy chair of Oriental make, and some 
stools finished the apartment. The odors of incense 
and pot-pourri pervaded the air, like invisible Eastern 
magicians, and intoxicated the occupants with a sense 
of luxury and indolence. The sensuous nature of 
Pierre succumbed to its influence, intensified as it was 
by the rare loveliness of his companion. 

A waiter entered, laying down a brass tray on the 
table with coffee and cigarettes. 

Faith lay back among the cushions on the lounge. 
She was very tired. It had been a long, trying day 
for her, and she closed her eyes with a sigh of relief. 

It was only for a moment, but the moment was too 
strong a temptation for Pierre Gaspard. Faith felt 
his warm breath near her lips, and she opened her eyes 
and looked steadily into his. 

Pierre! How dare you! Is this a part of your 
common courtesy? Or is it my enemy?” 


FAITH 


is neither. Oh, Faith, I love you! I love you 
madly, wildly! You are so beautiful that I cannot 
rc'cist you. You kill me with love.” And he caught 
her in his arms. 

Faith pushed him gently away. 

“Kill you!^’ she exclaimed in icy tones. “It may 
be unfortunate that you speak in figurative language, 
Mr. Gaspard. Otherwise perchance it were better so 
for you.” 

“But I would live. Faith!” he cried, passionately. 
“To possess you would be life indeed to me. I have 
loved you for years. Never since your marriage have I 
spoken of it ; but it has lived on just as it did before. I 
have longed to tell you of my love these last, cruel 
years! But I restrained myself.” 

“You mean you never had the opportunity,” came 
her cold, satirical rejoinder. “You have me at a dis- 
advantage now.” 

“How cruel you are !” broke hotly from Pierre. 

“And if I were kind?” she queried, with a curl of 
her lip. 

“I would make you my wife when he dies. We would 
leave this country now and live elsewhere, in any 
clime, in any land that pleased you till then. We have 
not long to wait, for he is a physical wreck, and death 
is ever creeping on him. I love you ! I have money — 
millions! I have everything but you, dearest Faith. 
Be mine!” And he tried to take her hands in his, but 
she recoiled. 

“Mr. Gaspard, this is not a subject for me to listen 


FAITH 


to. I may respect your love for me; but I can never, 
never love you. Your money is nothing to me. When 
I had millions it burned my fingers, and the blisters 
are scarce healed. Come, Pierre, don’t destroy what 
respect I have left for you. I did trust you; but we 
are not even friends now. You swept that away at the 
Boniface to-day.” 

^Hf you will not have me when I ask you in this way, 
I will compel you to be mine in another way,” he cried, 
moving closer to her on the lounge, and slipping his 
arm around her. 

Quickly Faith jumped up and hurried to the door. 

‘‘If you touch me I shall scream,” she said coolly, 
determinedly. 

^^My kisses will seal your lips,” returned Pierre, eye- 
ing her cynically. 

^^Not before I have made the attempt,” said she, res- 
olutely. 

^^You know what will be the consequences if you 
scream,” sneered Pierre Gaspard. ^^Your reputation 
will suffer. The public will hear, and it is no gentle 
critic of subjects such as you will offer. A scandal is 
the meeting-place of busy-bodies and carrion for the 
vultures of society.” 

Pierre lighted a cigarette and then added sardonic- 
ally : ‘^Anyway, where is a woman in an affair of this 
kind ? The woman always gets the worst of it, by some 
unwritten, inexorable law, whether she is innocent or 
not.” 


FAITH 245 

Faith remained silent. Then she said slowly, delib- 
erately : 

‘‘1 would rather go back to my husband, debauchee 
and wreck though he is, and lose my freedom, even my 
life, than I would choose the existence you hold out, 
which is like a cup of salt water to one dying of thirst. 
My sufferings are great now ; my memory sears my life 
with the past few years; but my conscience is clear. 
The existence you would force me to would be torture, 
wholly and soully. A life of greater misery I can scarce 
imagine. Sudden suicide would be far, far better than 
a living suicide such as that. A dead heart! Death 
to conscience ! Death to my soul ! A living, breathing, 
pulsing death! Its end would be tragic. Pierre, do 
you net see its horror?’’ 

Faith had stood before him like a statue, her cheeks 
white as whitest marble ; but she leaned across the table 
now, and her eyes flamed with a wonderful light as 
she bent them on Pierre Gaspard. 

^‘What a great love hers would have been had the fire 
which is burning at the horror of sin burned at the 
altar of love I” thought Pierre, as he watched her. Yet 
he shrank a little before the intense truth of her eyes, 
and his own wavered. ^^As a tragedy queen her beauty 
is more enthralling than ever.” 

With a sudden movement Pierre Gaspard seized her 
hand firmly in both of his. 

love you. Faith ! Love you ! You are more beau- 
tiful in your sorrows than in your joys. More than ever 
I love you! Faith, my idol!” And he would have 


246 


FAITH 


clasped her in his arms, but she was too quick for him. 
She touched the electric bell with her free hand and 
gasped, in a tone as cold as it was intense : 

Pierre Gaspard, you have crossed the Kubicon! 
And now you are my enemy 

And Pierre was vanquished. 

He dropped her hand and Faith Winston, completely 
exhausted, sank into the chair, closing her eyes wearily, 
miserably. 

A waiter came in answer to the bell. 

^Take away the coffee, and ask someone to call a 
cab,” she said carelessly. 

^^Yes, ma’am!” And the waiter vanished with the 
tray. 

Then she turned to Pierre, and continued quietly, 
but firmly: 

“1 am going home, to my boarding-house. You 
can go ! Good-night !” 

And Pierre Gaspard did as she bade him, for he had 
paid his price and received nothing in return; the 
merit of all shallow natures, who hope to force the 
seeds of love from rocky ground, and never know its 
soul. 


CHAPTER V 

For a week Pierre Gaspard left Faith in peace. It 
was not peace to her. For her mind was agitated with 
the memory of Kaymor’s ; the duel she had fought with 


FAITH 


247 


Pierre. She knew her opponent well, and if his love 
was strong, his revenge would be cruel. If he did re- 
venge himself, which would be to inform her husband 
where she was, her freedom would end, and the old 
slavery of her wretched married life begin again, daily 
unhappiness and monotonous pain. Oh ! the terror for 
her of such a life ! Life ? It was not life. Behind her 
spread the miserable years, only too vivid, when she 
was tied irrevocably to a man of no fine feeling; a 
brute in dissipation, who craved her beauty, but had 
no love for herself. And to commence all over again 
the hourly drudgery of continuous misery ! And after 
these months of freedom and peace! Her soul re- 
belled. 

There was no escape. Pierre had said so, which 
meant that he would watch her wherever she went, and 
whatever she did. And a telegram would bring her 
husband on her trail, she well knew, the instant he 
found out where she was. There was no use running 
away. The alternative was to return to her husband 
of her own free will. And then would follow his cruel 
and cutting taunts, and he would laugh and say it was 
fear that had brought her back. She, a coward! A 
coward, of all things, she most despised. 

Pierre’s vengeance would include more. He would 
tell her husband of her life in the Boniface restaurant. 
How he would torment her and sneer at her for her 
waitress life ! He would not strike her — no. The only 
lash he used was his tongue, the bitterest lash that 
could be applied to Faith Winston, with her sensitive, 


248 


FAITH 


gentle nature. And then a day might come, when at 
last driven to bay, she would turn on him. And then ! 

The gossip of her life would leak out. And society 
in the great city where Bernstein Gleney lived would 
hold its sides in laughter, or whisper doubts of her 
innocence. Faith recoiled, and all that was refined and 
good in her shrank from this ruthless, bitter picture. 
The longer she thought of it and anticipated its wretch- 
edness, the more she shuddered at the idea of braving 
a return to her husband. What an existence! How 
should she ever endure it? Her courage failed indeed. 

Faith understood Bernstein Gleney. Her husband’s 
brilliance had dazzled her; his happy-go-lucky nature 
had seemed gentleness and kindness of heart; and she 
had married him at nineteen years of age. Alas ! Her 
happiness had an early death. She discovered the 
cloven feet of her ideal. His brilliance and dash in 
the way of wrong were more terrible than his love and 
gayety in the path of right seemed fascinating, and, to 
her girlish eyes, even magnificent. How she had ideal- 
ized him! Memory is sorrow’s sting. For she still 
saw the beautiful fiower which her imagination had 
created, and which faded, died soon after her marriage. 
How she had watered it with her fine thoughts, and 
sunned it with her love ! How the tenderness and no- 
bleness of her own character had perfected it! And 
how her innocence had made it fragrant with a sweet- 
ness which pervaded everywhere, and distilled from all 
things ! But the fiower lay at her feet; its petals shriv- 


FAITH 24)9 

eled and lifeless ; its sweetness gone forever ; its beauty 
no more. 

One child had been born to them. But it only lived 
to utter its tiny cry and die. No baby hands had ever 
caressed her; no chubby arms had ever wound ai'ound 
her neck; no baby lips and smiles had ever loved her 
and warmed her heart. The longing of mother love 
had never been satisfied, and her home offered nothing 
to fill and console her life. She saw the world as a 
wilderness, bleak and cold. Nothing soothed the pain 
of a lifelong disappointment. And her heart died, as 
hearts sometimes do, when tried beyond their strength 
to endure. 

She loathed her husband’s wealth. She could not 
see its blessing, despite her many charities; she only 
saw its curse in Bernstein Gleney’s life. It flamed over 
his existence; it had burned her; it had seared all who 
had touched it from his hands, and Faith felt it would 
smoulder even at his end, with a menacing, angry fire 
like the claw of a demon. Pierre Gaspard’s millions! 
She laughed bitterly, miserably, as she thought of his 
offer. Millions ! They were the only fruit her mar- 
ried life had borne, and its taste was rancid, like the 
overplus apples which rotted in their orchards. 

As the years went by her married life had grown 
more terrible to her. At first they had fought with 
words to kill each other with words, and neither would 
give in. Then the baby came and slipped away, and her 
spirit broke. She sealed her lips and grew cold, silent 
and cold to him, silent and cold to everyone. 


250 


FAITH 


People judged her harshly, short-sightedly. Be- 
cause of the hardness of their hearts they turned from 
her. And Faith Winston Gleney, with a crushed and 
breaking heart, fled from her home in the south to 
bury her sorrows below a surface of ice and to live her 
quiet, monotonous waitress life in a New York res- 
taurant, and in a cheerless New York hoarding-house. 
From day to day she had lived there, with some sense 
of security and peace, and with a breath of freedom 
like the air of meadowland after the damp and chill of 
airless rooms. 

But that was all over now. Faith Winston did not 
weep. It was not her nature to give way to tears. But 
every day the fire burned more fiercely in her heart; 
the fire of doubt, uncertainty and distress. And Faith 
wilted under it, as the sun might scorch a lovely flower. 

On one side Pierre Gaspard’s offer; on another, the 
return to her husband willingly or unwillingly; and on 
the third — Faith closed her eyes to shut out its hor- 
ror — death, death by her own hand. Her soul rebelled 
against evil, as represented by Pierre and suicide, and 
her conscience smote her at the mere thought of these 
horrible temptations. And yet her human nature, her 
whole being, sought its right, its God-given right to be 
happ3% to rest, and the bondage of her marriage man- 
acled her hands and feet, bruised her, and daily cruci- 
fied her. It was no choice between love and duty; 
Faith loved no one, and Bernstein Gleney demanded no 
duty of her; he simply desired her beauty. Thus the 
battle continued between good and evil as Faith had 


FAITH 


251 


been taught to think of them, as they had been bred 
into her life, as conscience, the immutable, invisible 
monitor of all lives, pleaded and commanded. 

Each day Faith Winston grew paler. Hollows formed 
in rings around her eyes. And her eyes for the first 
time in her life looked large and brilliant, the only win- 
dows out of which the fire in her soul escaped, and 
found a glimmer of freedom. 

Betty was not unmindful of the change in Faith. Ho 
one else paid any attention to it. If they did chance 
to observe that she was whiter than usual, it was set 
down to ill health. The girls said, indifferently, that 
they supposed she was going into decline, as so many 
working girls did in Hew York. Faith never looked 
strong at any time, so it was not surprising. And they 
went on their ways like the priest and the Pharisee of 
old, and left Faith by the wayside to her wounds and 
her sufferings. 

But not so with Betty. Without being obtrusive she 
paid her friend every little attention and kindness she 
could think of in the goodness of her heart, and felt 
well rewarded when Faith gave her a smile of thanks 
in recognition of her thoughtfulness and sympathy. 

Betty had made the acquaintance of a bright young 
gentleman this last week or so. Intuitively she felt 
that he was coming to the Boniface restaurant for a 
purpose of his own, and Betty guessed it rightly, al- 
though the young man had no idea of her having done 
so. Every day he came, and several times a day, and 
Betty made a point of serving him every time she 


FAITH 


je5^ 

could manage it. His manner was the essence of good- 
nature and off-hand generosity, and his earnest blue 
eyes looked straight at her with a sound in their depths 
that rang of true steel. Of a kingly height, he had 
broader shoulders than most men, and a swinging gait 
which betokened a taste for the ocean, and a knowledge 
of walking decks on a rough sea or pulling halyards in 
a hurricane. His large, shapely hands and his cheery 
face were bronzed with the sun, and his fair hair was 
tinged with gold from long exposure in southern climes, 
where the sunshine was hotter than in New York. 
x\bout this man was a fresh, bracing atmosphere and 
a world of kindliness that won Betty’s confidence and 
respect. It seemed to breathe of a staunch and faithful 
heart, a magnetic personality and a free and easy, hon- 
est mind. 

As they became better acquainted, Betty hinted to 
him in a way of her own that she had formed her opin- 
ions about his purpose in coming so often to the Boni- 
face restaurant. But the man smiled and appeared un- 
conscious. 

It was on Good Friday that Pierre Gaspard strolled 
into the Boniface. Faith saw him as she was entering 
the restaurant through the swing doors, and she shud- 
dered. He sat down at a table on the opposite side of 
the room from Betty’s acquaintance; a table where 
Faith always served. Betty was going out as Faith 
was coming in with a tray of dishes and cutlery. 

^‘Take this, Betty!” she said quickly. ^Ht goes to 


FAITH 


table six. And please serve the gentleman who is alone 
at table four. I feel so ill that I must go home.’’ 

It was all said and done so suddenly that Betty had 
taken the tray, had laid the various dishes on table six 
and was standing at table four by the gentleman ^^alone” 
before the gentleman had sat down, after removing his 
hat and coat. And Betty watched carefully at table 
number four. 

^^Well, my pretty girl, what do you want here?” 
asked Pierre Gaspard, with a careless smile, glancing at 
the girl’s bright face with a touch of patronage and 
admiring indifference, for Betty’s face had just missed 
being pretty, her serious blue eyes being her chief 
charm. 

^^Your order, sir,” answered Betty gravely. 

Pierre glanced slowly all around the restaurant; not 
finding whom he was seeking, he inquired : 

Where is the waitress who served me the other day ? 
Miss Winslow, Win — something or other, I heard one 
of the waitresses call her.” 

^^She has gone home ill,” returned Betty in a tone 
of reserve. 

^^Oh, so sorry! Has she been ill long?” raising his 
eyebrows with insincere sympathy. 

^^No !” snapped Betty, so suddenly, that Pierre lifted 
his monocle and stared at her through it. 

^^She waits well,” he observed, without further com- 
ment but with an ironical smile. 

^^Your order, sir!” demanded Betty again, some- 
what peremptorily. 


^54 


FAITH 


He gave it easily, and she hurried away to fill it, 
knitting her eyebrows and looking puzzled. Then a 
light broke over her face. 

remember,” she murmured to herself. ^^Just a 
week ago ! Faith was looking all right that day ; but 

since ” Betty broke off, and finished with ^Ht is 

the same man. I know his face; I would know it any- 
where, and it is not a good one. But what can he pos- 
sibly have to do with Faith Winston? Or rather, what 
can Faith have in common with him? Dear me ! It is 
a queer world !” 

When she returned she paid marked attention to 
Pierre, seeking to please him by every small care. She 
answered his jokes and impertinences as gaily and 
freely as he gave them. When he had finished his meal 
he studied her face a moment and then said quietly: 

‘^Will you give Miss Winston a message from an old 
friend of hers, who knew her before she came to wait 
in this restaurant, and who is at present in New 
York?” 

Certainly !” came Betty’s prompt reply. would 
do anything to please you!” And Betty laughed in- 
wardly at her white fib. 

will hold you to that and demand a kiss the first 
time we meet alone, or are unobserved by the throng. 
It will be my payment for your service,” and he gave 
her a sly smile. 

‘^And I will serve you well !” rejoined Betty, mean- 
ing what she said in a way that was to startle Pierre 


FAITH 


255 


later on. She closed her lips in a smile over set teeth 
and bit her tongue hard. 

“Then tell Miss Winston that her friend, Mr. Pierre 
— here, give me one of your order slips and I shall 
write the name so that you will not forget it. Mr. 
Pierre will await her in Central Park to-morrow aft- 
ernoon at three o’clock. He will meet her at the bridge 
across the lake.’^ 

“And who shall I say gave the message inquired 
Betty with seeming innocence. 

“You have one service to perform for me, is it not 
enough?’^ he asked with a queer smile. “If you ask 
for more the payment will be increased ; kisses, you un- 
derstand ; and there is such a thing as getting too much 
of a good thing. You may get more than you want; 
not more than I can give. Be wise 

Betty tipped her chin saucily; but her cheeks had 
flushed. 

“I guess Pm equal to all occasions she laughed in 
a forced way. 

As he put on his coat he gave her a keen, bold look. 

“YouTl do, my girl he observed, and walked off. 

“Yes. ril more than do muttered Betty to her- 
self. “I’ll do for you if ever I get the chance ! You 
rascal !” 

Betty’s cheeks were very hot; but not more so than 
her anger. She had played her part well in deceiving 
Pierre Gaspard, and now that it was over she was afire 
wdth indignation. He did not know that she was a 
friend of Faith Winston’s, and would defend her from 


256 


FAITH 


any calamity or care that she could prevent. And he 
was not going to know that if she could help it. Her 
conscience was clear. 

^^Had the restaurant been empty and a pistol handy, 
and a few alterations made in my character, my last 
glance at you, Mr. Pierre, as you marched out so calmly, 
would have been a bullet,” she thought with fiery in- 
dignation. ^^And it would have been better service 
than you deserved.” 

Betty hastened to the cloak-room, tore a sheet off 
her order pad, and wrote a note. She folded it care- 
fully and tucked it into her sleeve. Then she returned 
to the restaurant and crossed to where her new ac- 
quaintance of the cheerful manners sat at his table, 
absorbed in a newspaper. She made as if to clear the 
table and set it afresh with plates, tumblers, and so on. 
In reaching for a glass, she, with apparent accident, 
tumbled a spoon on the floor. She stooped to pick it 
up, and as she did so, the gentleman, with the free 
courtesy of a seaman, stooped also, and as his head 
neared hers she lifted an earnest, anxious face to his, 
and whispered : 

‘^Can I trust you?” 

Absolutely !” And his answering glance was as 
honest as hers. 

‘Take this, please!” she said, hurriedly, in a low 
voice, handing him her rough note. “Bead it when you 
are out of sight of the Boniface.” 

He nodded kindly and slipped the note into his 
pocket. Then he left the restaurant. 


FAITH 


The young man took the note out when some blocks 
away from the Boniface and read it carefully. Bead 
it with great surprise and pity; then with an expres- 
sion of righteous indignation. He frowned and thought 
hard as he strolled over to Fifth Avenue and hired a 
*bus. After he had climbed its steeple-like steps and 
seated himself as comfortably as he could on the sky- 
scraping elevation, he drew out his newspaper from a 
capacious pocket and ran his eyes over all the columns. 
He found what he was seeking, and extracting a pair 
of scissors from a small leather case, he carefully clipped 
out a cutting, read it over several times as if to make 
sure of its contents, then folded it nicely and stowed 
it in a safe inside pocket. Then he re-read Betty’s note, 
and stowed it with the clipping, and went on his way 
with a complex smile. 


CHAPTER VI 

It was the Saturday before Easter Sunday. A clear, 
sunny day, and very mild, with a lustrous sky of dark- 
est blue overhead. 

Pierre Gaspard was awaiting Faith Winston on the 
bridge in Central Park. The park was overrun with 
crowds of holiday-makers. Every walk was lined with 
loungers, visitors, tourists, citizens, nurse-girls and chil- 
dren; every bench and seat was occupied; every road- 
way in the park was a carriage parade; every rowboat 
and swanboat on the lake was filled; and even the 


258 


FAITH 


riders’ row thudded beneath the tread of troops of 
horses. Everywhere over the hills and dales, on the 
grass and in the shade of the trees, people were resting 
and children were shouting and laughing at play. 

Spring was just beginning to bud out on the shrubs 
and the trees, and to tinge the bushes with emerald. 
The fresh green was like a carpet of velvet in the hol- 
lows, and over the undulating meadows of the park. 
The birds migrating northward trilled in the groves 
and chirruped from twig and bough. The little gray 
squirrels, alive with the zest of spring, scampered 
everywhere or sat up and ate the peanuts which passers- 
by fed to them, chattering gaily and munching to their 
hearts’ content. And the saucy, bold sparrow, more 
impudent and aggressive than ever, snatched and de- 
molished every crumb of bread and cake it could find; 
and then hopped away for more. Glowing and chang- 
ing with every ripple which struck fire from its smooth 
surface, the lake reflected the azure depths of the sky 
and lay like a sapphire in its setting of green banks. 
And the sun gleamed down with the joyous warmth of 
spring and cheered everything it touched. 

Pierre had not long to wait. He was not a man who 
liked waiting without being amused, and humanity on 
a holiday, and nature in her early garb of spring, did 
not interest or amuse him. So he was relieved when 
Faith’s tall figure appeared on a turn of the road, 
which wound near the bank of the lake. 

To-day Faith looked like the goddess of spring in 
her dark green suit. Simply dressed and unconscious 


FAITH 


259 


of her own strange loveliness, she had no wish to at- 
tract attention, and least of all admiration. But her 
odd prettiness won it under all guises, and many eyes 
turned to look after the graceful woman as she walked 
leisurely along the road, oblivious of their stares and 
comments, and lost in her own thoughts and dreams. 

lovely day, is it not?’^ said Pierre Gaspard, after 
a frosty greeting from Faith. 

^^A bright day, and a brighter remark,” answered she 
coldly. 

Pierre ignored the chill. 

“Where would you like to go?” he asked, changing 
the subject. 

“Is it for me to say?’^ inquired Faith icily. “This 
is your affair, not mine. You arranged the meeting, 
and under the circumstances I am compelled to obey. 
It is you who are ruling just now.” 

“And a great ruler is only great in so far as he can 
stoop to his weakest subject,” returned Pierre, with a 
pleasant consciousness of power. 

Faith smiled. “And sometimes the weakest subject 
may overturn a throne. Strength and weakness are 
mere words. Sometimes might lies behind the one, and 
sometimes behind the other. But let us change the 
subject. Where are you going to take me?” 

“To the trees yonder,” answered Pierre carelessly. 
“It is quiet there and away from the crowds. I detest 
crowds. We can see all around us, and yet remain 
somewhat secluded.” 


FAITH 


m 

Faith glanced sideways at him, with a little curl of 
her lip. 

^^You mean,’^ she said, where we can see and yet 
not be seen.” 

^^Well, if you like it that way. I prefer ^Where from 
the world sacred to sweet retirement lovers may steal,^ 
as Thomson puts it. There is mystery in being invis- 
ible. And love is strongest in silence,” and he laughed 
pleasantly. 

They rambled along the hillside to a grove of trees, 
where a clump of firs and cedars screened them from 
passengers on the roads and paths. It was out of ear- 
shot of the throngs who were passing by. Through the 
openings in the branches they could look out over the 
lake below and yet be unseen in the evergreen grove. 

They sat down on the grass in silence. Pierre lighted 
a cigar, and puffed circle after circle into the air, and 
among the fir-needles and sprays of cedar. 

^^That smoke makes me think of your dead love 
affair. The wreaths look very pretty and they soar up- 
ward; but they do not last,” said Pierre, glancing at 
Faith to see the effect of his remark. 

But she sat immovable and made no comment. 

^^Your ideals were too high, too ethereal,” he con- 
tinued, in that wicked spirit of tormenting which some 
persons have developed to a fine point. 

^Tf that is your topic, you will have to converse with 
yourself,” said Faith, indifferently. 

“You know what I say is true, and that is why you 


FAITH 261 

avoid it,” went on her tormentor, determined to hurt 
her in a way that such persons always do. 

^^Now you speak mere truisms. Let us again change 
the topic. What did you bring me here for to-day? 
What more do you want of me?” And she turned on 
him a listless pair of eyes. 

brought you here with the same intention, the 
same design if you like, that I had in dining you at 
Raymor’s; only more determined. I hope it will be 
final,” and a sinister smile crossed his dark features. 

Faith pulled some grass up by the roots; but said 
nothing in reply. 

^^What more do I want of you?” Pierre continued. 

'^No more than I asked before ” 

Commanded and demanded before, you mean!” in- 
terrupted Faith tersely. 

^^No more than I asked before,” repeated Pierre 
steadily. ‘^And that is your own dear self.” 

^^You know my answer,” returned she icily. 

^^No! I do not. I will not. Think! Think of the 
consequences if you refuse me again,” he persisted, 
have thought of them,” came her reply, in a low 

voice. 

“But this is the last time; your last chance. I will 
not wait any longer. I have loved you always, and you 
have known it for years,” and the man knocked the 
ashes off his cigar impatiently. 

“And you had my answer years ago. You have it 
now. It is the same, Pierre Gaspard.” 

“And the consequences?” he insisted, biting his lips. 


262 


FAITH 


for the consequences, perchance I have studied 
them even more than you have.” And Faith’s eyes 
looked fearlessly into his. 

^^You are a brave girl,” he said admiringly; ‘^but 
you are not super-human.” 

Apropos of what?” she queried. 

^^Of your future. Faith.” 

^^So you think I must needs be super-human to go 
back to Bernstein Gleney! Then I would need to be 
ultra super-human to go with you, Pierre Gaspard !” 

He laughed. ^^But I love you; he does not.” 

^^And your love would cease, Pierre. You love me 
because I am beyond your reach. A man’s way !” 

^^Like the Edelweiss on the Alps?” asked he with 
amusement. 

Perchance ! And it might mean disaster to you if 
you ever plucked it,” said Faith coldly. 

^Ht may grow in places both steep and difficult, even 
risky, but I will have it. Faith, do or die.” 

^^And your love would die as soon as you possessed it. 
It would have nothing more to live upon, which means 
starvation. I know you better than you know your- 
self, and such love would float out of the stream of your 
life.” And Faith sighed wearily, as if tired of the 
topic. 

^Hs your beauty nothing?” he continued. ‘Ht is as 
pure and soft as the velvety whiteness of the Edelweiss 
and as lovely.” 

Faith slowly turned her head toward him, her cheeks 


FAITH 263 

were flushed, her eyes burned with indignation; but 
her voice was cold and steady as she said : 

^^You forget ! The Edelweiss grows on the Alps. But 
it grows at a height nearer the icebound snowfields and 
glaciers than the sunny vales below. life does not 
end with a woman’s beauty. I have nothing to give 
you. And there is absolutely nothing to make us one ; 
nothing !” 

^^A woman’s beauty means much in a man’s life,” 
he went on, knowing how it hurt her. ^Ht has some- 
times toppled thrones.” 

Faith turned on him with a look of utmost con- 
tempt. 

^^You too, Pierre Gaspard! Another Bernstein Gle- 
ney ! It is my beauty always. I would I had been bom 
plain, and then I might have been happy. At least I 
would not have inspired love in your heart.” 

^^Come, Faith ! My love for you is better than none 
at all.” And he tried to laugh. 

But Faith Winston jumped up and turned on him 
like a lioness at bay. 

^‘You insult me!” she cried angrily. 

admit it was a poor joke, my dear Faith.” 

^^Poor joke ! You do not know what you say I Tell 
me at once what you brought me here for, and have 
done with this sham parade of words!” And she 
clenched her fists, while her bosom heaved with anger. 

Pierre got up easily and stood a few moments ad- 
miring the angry woman with the wonderful fire in 


264 FAITH 

her eyes. But she never moved; the embodiment of 
courage and truth. 

^^Beautiful he murmured. 

^^Your answer?^^ she demanded like an empress. 

^^You tell me my love is no love. You say you will 
go back to Bernstein Gleney. Take the consequences 
and die in torture!” he cried more angry than she. 
And then, as if he could hold hack no longer, he added 
passionately, raising his voice with the impetuosity of 
his feelings. ^^You say there is might behind weakness. 
But there is force behind strength. Despite your cold- 
ness, your Alpine nature, my lovely Edelweiss! you 
shall be mine.” 

And he caught her in his arms and buried her pale 
face beneath his passionate kisses. 

'^Mine !” he cried. Forever mine in heaven or hell ! 
I love you!” 

Faith struggled hard to free herself, but he held her 
closer in his arms. Then she turned her head suddenly 
to escape his kisses, and uttered a smothered scream. 
Not too soon, for he had lifted her off her feet, crush- 
ing the slight woman, and pressing his lips on hers till 
Faith was breathless and dizzy, and ready to faint from 
the suddenness of his brutal attack. 

The branches of the cedar trees parted and a gen- 
tleman stood silently watching them. 

Pierre sat Faith down, releasing her, and stared 
fiercely at the intruder. Faith also turned and gazed 
at the newcomer. Her glance of pain and distress met 
with a pair of honest, sympathetic blue eyes. 


FAITH 


265 


Instinctively she held out both hands to him. 

"I don’t know who you are, or where you come from ; 
but your eyes are honest and kind. For the sake of 
all you hold dearest in life and best in womanhood, 
take me from this man. None could be worse than he!” 

^^You trust me. Madam,’’ he said simply. have 
never injured a woman in my life and,” he paused, as 
he studied her weary, sad face, never will.” 

^^Take her and take the consequences!” hissed Pierre 
Gaspard through his set teeth. 

Thank you, sir! Your offer is more generous than 
you suspect, and more willingly accepted than you real- 
ize,” answered Betty’s acquaintance of the Boniface 
restaurant, for it was he who had come to aid Faith 
Winston. 

“Then you had better take care. That is all I have 
to say about it,” and Pierre Gaspard turned on his heel 
and strode away through the park, biting his lips venge- 
fully. 

“Vanquished again!” he muttered hoarsely. “And 
who the devil is that man? But I’ll fix him if he in- 
terferes again.” 

And he lit a cigar and hired a cab, returning in a 
beaten mood to his hotel. 


CHAPTER VII 

Easter Sunday passed quietly for Faith Winston. The 
cliurch bells chimed out musically, vibrating joy and 


S66 


FAITH 


peace all over the city of New York. The world seemed 
full of happy people, from the gay throngs which pa- 
raded and massed on Fifth Avenue, to the strollers in 
Central Park. Not so for Faith; her heart was buried 
in darkness. 

She had found out Betty’s address, and had sent for 
her. And Betty came, willing and delighted. In leav- 
ing Bernstein Gleney, Faith had taken little money, 
and only the money which was rightfully her own, a 
small inheritance left by her father, John Winston. 
The only clothes she had were too fine for every-day 
wear, and least of all in a restaurant. Faith lived on 
the wages that she earned at the Boniface. Her board- 
ing-house room was modest and tidy. Her fine tastes 
were averse to the vulgarities of boarding-house fur- 
nishings and decorations. And a dainty touch here and 
there in a picture, an ornament, and a few hooks with 
interesting titles, betrayed something of the person- 
ality of the occupant, and her tastes were simple and 
direct. 

Betty told Faith what she had done. How she had 
planned with her new acquaintance in the Boniface, 
Mr. Shelburne, to have him watch Pierre and herself 
in Central Park, and to interfere, if necessary. She 
told Faith of the note she had written to Mr. Shel- 
burne in the restaurant, and of how kindly and readily 
he offered his services in her aid. Where he came 
from she did not know; but from his accent she was 
sure that he was an Englishman and a gentleman of 
rank in the navy. 


FAITH 


267 


As for Mr. Pierre, she had distrusted him from the 
first. She saw that he was annoying her friend. She 
hoped Faith would forgive her interference, but she 
had done it out of love for her. 

Faith Winston had pressed her hand warmly, and 
with a gentle smile had said, ^^Thank you, dear !” 

And this had meant more to Betty than words; for 
Betty’s heart understood a great deal more than it ap- 
peared to understand. 

^^God bless her !” murmured Betty to herself. 

Easter Sunday was a sad day for Faith Winston. The 
inevitable had to be faced. She knew a severe ordeal 
lay before her if she returned to Bernstein Gleney, a 
future of difficulty; but it seemed the only alternative. 
And conscience told her it was the only way. 

It was Faith Winston’s Gethsemane. She shed no 
tears, hut there were lines of pain around her mouth 
and eyes which betrayed the inward struggle. Reason, 
feeling, conscience, were doing battle for her future; 
perchance for eternity. Freedom of thought and the 
joy of living drew her in one direction. Conscience, 
the wondrous wise instinct of the soul, pointed an- 
other path. What thousands and millions had stood 
at these crossroads before ! One road apparently so 
smooth, so easy, so bright, overshadowed with the mys- 
tery of an unknown and perhaps dreadful end. The 
other a narrow, up-hill path, where lay a cross where 
thorns would tear her tender flesh and sharp stones cut 
the tired feet where a mystery indeed enshrouded it, 
but a mystery with a hope brighter than the sun. Faith 


268 


FAITH 


swayed between the road and the path, wavering at the 
gateway of the one, and then at the entrance of the 
other. Would that the many who had suiStered, doubt- 
ed, reasoned, and then decided — would that they could 
come back to earth again and tell her, guide her which 
way she should go ! 

Then the meaning of the day came into her mind. It 
was Easter Sunday ! To-morrow was kept sacred in the 
churches in remembrance of the Resurrection, hun- 
dreds and hundreds of years ago. 

All that she had read of the Greatest of all great 
lives came into her thoughts. It passed before her in- 
ward vision in a procession of pictures, scene after 
scene, one wonderful act after another. The marvel- 
ous wisdom, the white truth, the spiritual beauty, the 
unutterable pathos of the Master’s life! The awful 
agony of standing alone, because no one would believe 
Him. The terrible, but magnificent tragedy of Geth- 
semane ! The seemingly complete failure of the Gross ! 
The Master’s heroic and surpassing love! And then 
the splendor and glory of the Resurrection ! Faith be- 
held it all. There it lived in her mental vision. The 
only way! 

‘T am the Way, the Truth and the Life !” 

Faith Winston threw herself on her bed and sobbed; 
cried as she had never done in her life. Her slender 
body shook with, the outburst of feeling and the relief. 
The struggle was over. Peace had fallen on the battle- 
field, though the broken and shattered remains of 


FAITH 269 

thoughts, ideals and past feelings lay scattered there, 
and still bleeding. 

Betty bent over her and lifted her head gently, lay- 
ing it on her lap. She soothed the lonely woman with 
tender words; she smoothed her hair with a loving 
touch, and tears of sympathy ran slowly down her 
cheeks. 

ask nothing, dear, of your life ; but if there is any 
way in which I can serve you, let me do it,’^ said Betty, 
earnestly. 

Faith raised her tear-stained face. 

"Have you any duty that binds you to your home 
here in New York?” 

Betty smiled. "I have an old father to keep; but 
my sister helps, too. She keeps our rooms nice and 
makes his life as comfortable as we can afford. I sup- 
ply the money.” 

"If I were able to give you more than the Boniface 
restaurant can pay you, would you come with me where 
I am going?” asked Faith, gravely, wiping her tears 
away. 

"If you gave me nothing I would go, had I not my 
old father to think of. As it is, your offer will help us 
more than what I can do now. It is very kind of you, 
dear. But 1^11 go with you because you have grown 
so dear to me, and I cannot part with you in the 
midst of your troubles.” And Betty caressed her lov- 
ingly. 

"Thank you, Betty,” returned Faith Winston, with 
a grateful smile. 


270 


FAITH 


"And where do yon go?’^ asked the little waitress. 
"If you don’t mind my asking.” 

"I?” said Faith with a wan smile. "I go to my hus- 
band.” 

And she gently kissed the little waitress, Betty. 


CHAPTER VIII 

Easter Monday arose with the sun full of cheerfulness 
and gayety. The streets were thronged with pedes- 
trians. The ’buses on Fifth Avenue were filled to over- 
flowing on their way up to Central Park. The cars 
were crowded; the underground and the elevated rail- 
ways streamed with passengers. Everywhere life and 
activity, bustle and hurry, vibrated in the air. And 
the restaurants were as busy as bee hives and ant hills, 
with people flocking in and out in search of food and 
drink and fun. 

The Boniface restaurant was giddy with business. 
The fat, pudgy little manager was bustling here and 
there among the shoals of customers, like a ball bob- 
bing on the surface of a rough sea. He had an air of 
tremendous importance and a dignity quite so large as 
his paunch. He was a J ewish-looking man, with small, 
money-making black eyes, an overpowering black mus- 
tache, and a greasy personality. For the most part his 
head was bald. His dress suit seemed to have had its 
annual bath, for it appeared to have been cleaned and 


FAITH 


271 

pressed for the occasion. A portentious and impressive 
diamond ring flashed on one Anger. His expression 
was not soft, and yet there was a humane upward curl 
of his lips which betokened an optimistic nature, and 
some sense of humor. The manager of the Boniface 
restaurant was a keen, shrewd money-maker, but a 
jolly, kind-hearted man withal. 

The waitresses were all on duty, everyone serving 
even more customers than she was well able to man- 
age; Faith Winston and Betty among the rest. It 
was to be Faith Winston’s last day at the Boniface; hut 
only Betty and the manager knew of it. 

Faith had never been a favorite with the girls, so 
she would not be missed, except by admiring male cus- 
tomers. Perchance poor Sue might think about it. 
Since the day of her rudeness in the restaurant she 
had softened to Faith. Indeed, she had tried to live 
a better life, to Betty’s secret comfort. And perhaps 
Sue’s life was not so wrong as it had been. For the 
spark of good had not died out in her heart. 

All day every waitress was busy. They had scarce 
a moment to themselves. As the evening drew on, and 
as the customers lessened, the manager dismissed the 
girls who seemed most tired. 

Then came the after-theater parties, and the res- 
taurant was active again. The waitresses hurried to 
the different tables with salads and oyster suppers, club 
sandwiches and welsh rarebit, and other after-theater 
dainties. 

But they, too, gradually dwindled away. And as it 


FAITH 


^12 

neared twelve o’clock only Faith Winston and Betty 
remained to wait, and only two customers sat at the 
Boniface tables. 

The manager had slipped into the little stall or box, 
where the money was gathered in, the change paid out ; 
where orders were carefully read over and checked, and 
the receipts and the accounts kept. The lady cashier 
had gone home. 

Faith knew one of the customers; it was Pierre Gas- 
pard. But her struggle of yesterday had left her re- 
signed and peaceful, and his power to torment and 
startle her was gone. She was waiting on him, but 
kept at a distance after filling his orders. 

Betty attended the other customer, and they seemed 
to be having a very merry time from the subdued 
laughter that was heard now and then in the quietness 
of the restaurant. 

One large pillar in the center of the room hid the 
two customers from one another. Pierre had made up 
his mind to outstay the other man. But the other man 
sat on and appeared to have an enormous appetite, and 
as great an oblivion to the fact that it was time the 
Boniface was closed. His head was enveloped in a news- 
paper, and he seemed to have no inclination to give 
it up. 

Pierre finished his meal very slowly. He whirled 
away some moments with a toothpick. Then he lit a 
cigar and smoked carefully to make it last. He opened 
his newspaper and read every advertisement in it. And 
then he peered around the pillar at the other man ; he 


FAITH 273 

was still there, though Pierre could only see the back 
of his head. 

So he proceeded to read the houses and lands for 
sale, which were numberless, extraordinarily cheap, and 
most satisfactory. He read the situations vacant, 
which were uninteresting, and the second-hand goods to 
sell, v/hich were romantic. And finally he reached the 
heading, ^^Domestics Wanted.” But the overwhelming 
length of the columns subscribed to this heading floored 
Pierre’s patience. It was appalling ! The whole world 
seemed in need of domestics ; but the domestics seemed 
to have no need of the world, as, indeed, they appeared 
to be as rare as sunflowers in a snowbank. So he pock- 
eted his monacle and ceased his scrutiny of the hopeless 
paper. 

Still the other man sat on! 

Pierre was not to be beaten. He lighted another 
cigar and smoked particularly and deliberately. He 
made the cigar last as long as any human cigar could 
last. And now Pierre Gaspard’s patience was well-nigh 
spent. Even the finger-bowl, which he had dabbled in 
several times with apparent forgetfulness, ceased to 
cool his rising anger at the other man, and ceased to 
amuse the manager, who looked restlessly in one direc- 
tion and then in the other, at his everlasting customers. 
Seemingly, they were glued to their chairs, and this 
was to be an all-night affair 1 

The manager coughed obtrusively; then offensively. 
And lastly, as his brows hung down in a heavy, pug- 
nacious frown, Pierre felt he could stand it no longer. 


274 


FAITH 


He called Faith over to his table. 

^‘The bill, please! How much?” he demanded, irri- 
tated at his late futile maneuvers. 

Then the manager, conscience-stricken, disappeared 
through the swing doors, on pretention of having some- 
thing to do. Pierre had to wait. The manager would 
return shortly. That is, behind the scenes, the man- 
ager did not wish to give offense in appearing to dis- 
miss a customer by his coughing spell. He was wait- 
ing behind the swing doors. 

This suited Pierre Gaspard exactly. When Faith be- 
gan to clear the table, he took hold of her wrist and 
held it firmly. 

^'To-night, Faith. It is your last opportunity.” 

^^How very kind of you, Pierre ! You surpass your- 
self in thoughtfulness. I thought you had sealed my 
doom,” and her lip curled with a touch of contempt. 

‘^This is final,” he said, doggedly. 

^^Not to be continued in our next?” inquired Faith 
with irony. ^^Your consideration is as kind as your 
purpose is noble.” 

^^Well! What have you to say?” he asked, ignoring 
her remark. 

Faith said nothing. 

^^Cruel Faith! My Edelweiss of the cold Alps! 
Have you no word for me?-” he continued, mockingly. 

‘^Not one, Pierre Gaspard!” 

^^Then when I say I love you, I will give you my all, 
lay it at your feet — what will you answer? It is free- 


FAITH 275 

dom and life such as you long for, if you will come with 
me,’’ and Pierre watched her face closely. 

But her face did not change, and she answered sim- 

ply: 

“I have nothing to say. It needs no repeating.” 

‘^Then you refuse me?” And a sinister expression 
came into his brown eyes. 

do; just as I did long ago, Pierre.” 

Pierre pushed his chair back and faced her squarely. 

‘^Then I’ll tell the manager of the Boniface res- 
taurant,” he said deliberately, with a cruel curl of his 
sensuous lips. 

‘^When?” came Faith’s listless query. 

To-night !” said Pierre. 

‘^And where?” she asked mechanically. 

‘^Here and now. Faith, my dear,” with a disagree- 
able laugh. 

Faith partly closed her eyes and turned a shade paler, 
but her manner, voice and face remained the same. 

‘^You threaten,” she said lightly, to gain time for 
thought, and to shake his resolution if possible. 

"Not this time. I act now,” and he stood before her, 
dogged and cruel. 

"Tell him,” returned Faith quietly. 

Pierre Gaspard was amazed. 

"What nerve!” he muttered under his breath. 

He crossed the room to the stall, where the man- 
ager was now seemingly occupied with cash, but from 
which point of vantage his eyes had been wandering, 
with an expression of puzzled surprise, in their direc- 


276 


FAITH 


tion. Faith had never talked so long or so earnestly to 
a man in the Boniface. 

Pierre leaned over the counter and spoke to the man- 
ager in a low voice. The latter started in astonish- 
ment. 

^^Mrs. Bernstein Gleney !” he exclaimed, rather loudly, 
it true? And a price offered for knowledge of her 
whereabouts !” 

Faith Winston Gleney was overwrought with the 
strain of the last few days. The mental and emotional 
excitement of the past week, added to Sunday’s strug- 
gle, and to-night to Pierre’s cruel revelation of her 
identity, were beyond her strength to endure or con- 
trol. Her icy reserve melted in the blaze of a sup- 
pressed life, now on fire. Her resentment, her indig- 
nation, her sense of injustice and the indignity to her 
womanhood broke through the cool restraint of years. 
Like a river overfiowing its hanks and carrying all be- 
fore it on its flooding and rushing torrents. Faith Win- 
ston Gleney at last lifted her voice in public in defense 
of herself and her life. 

She turned fiercely on Pierre, as he stood near the 
manager. 

'‘Brute! Who sent you into this world to destroy 
the life of another? The one master you server — the 
devil ! Not content with the blackness of your own 
heart, you seek to blacken another’s. Failing in this, 
you seek revenge ! Eevenge, Pierre ! Have your re- 
venge 1” And then she turned to the manager. "I am 
Mrs. Bernstein Gleney. I go to my husband to-night. 


FAITH 


m 


But before I go I claim the respect due to a lady, and 
the right due to a woman. This man — brute! if you 
will, though it were insult to the four-footed kind to 
so name him — this man has insulted me. He must 
leave this place at once, or Bernstein Gleney will know 
the reason why.” 

Faith looked at Pierre and lifting her arm, pointed 
to the door. 

The manager stood aghast between Faith and Pierre. 
Betty and the other man had come forward, and were 
embarrassed witnesses of the scene. Betty’s eyes were 
full of pity for Faith; the other man’s calm but deter- 
mined. 

The latter laid his hand gently on Pierre’s arm and 
said, in a voice quiet and firm, but accustomed to com- 
mand and to be obeyed : 

‘‘You had better go, sir.” 

Pierre turned on him in a flash, with the quickness 
and ferocity of a wild beast. Had the other man not 
been agile and leaped aside, Pierre would have struck 
him. 

“So!” shouted Pierre Gaspard. “You interfere a 
second time ! It will be your last. Bernstein Gleney 
will love no mistress for a wife, and he shall know the 
story from me.” 

Betty’s eyes filled with horror. 

Faith had regained her self-command, and her voice 
was steady as she said coolly: 

“How dare you, Pierre ! It is a lying insinuation.” 

The manager gasped, and his eyes wavered a mo- 


278 FAITH 

ment. But the other stood calmly studying Faith and 
Pierre. 

^^Go, you bully cried Pierre, glaring at him. 

“1 go only with Mrs. Gleney’s permission,” answered 
the gentleman, courteously. ‘^And then I take her to 
her home.” 

Faith’s long gray eyes moved slowly and wearily 
from Pierre to Mr. Shelburne; but gratitude deep and 
sincere filled them with tears. 

^^You may do that,” hissed Pierre; ^^but jealousy is 
the spice of love. You and she will have enough of it 
when Bernstein Gleney hears of these queer doings.” 

Bernstein Gleney already hears,^’ answered Mr. 
Shelburne in a low voice. And as they all turned their 
eyes on him in surprise he added: ^^That is, if the 
dead can hear anything.” 

Faith sank into a chair, faint and worn out. 

‘^Dead? Is my husband dead?” she asked. And 
then murmured sadly: ‘^And after all these dark years ! 
And after all this last week!” 

^^Yes, Mrs. Gleney. He died on the afternoon of 
Good Friday.” 

‘^And how did you know?” 

^*Oh, I happened to have a clipping out of a news- 
paper. It was sent to me. Some friends of mine knew 
him. Here it is.” 

Thank God!” murmured the wearied woman as she 
read it. 

So Pierre Gaspard was vanquished the third time. 


FAITH 279 

And he strode out of the Boniface restaurant like a 
cur with its tail down. 

Thank you,” said Faith, turning to the other man 
gratefully. 

Mr. Shelburne had kept cool and steady, like any 
seaman; but when he looked into her pale, sad face, he 
longed to take her into his arms. Instead, he simply 
said : 

^Mt was nothing. Any right-minded man would have 
done the same thing.” 

Faith and Betty went home together. And the man- 
ager of the Boniface closed the restaurant more slowly 
and thoughtfully than he had ever done before. 

This was Easter Monday. The Monday held sacred 
as the day of the Eesurrection in all the churches. 
Thousands believed it all over the world. And thou- 
sands would believe it in the centuries to come. 

It was the day of the Resurrection. And it was the 
beginning of life and freedom for Faith Winston. 


THE END 













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